So one more moon poem, it's called "Moon of No Return."
Moon of no return, never the same,
got you on like a silver shawl, making the train whistle squeal.
Yma Sumac hitting all her ranges at once
in the white flash of night.
I love you moon, more than mere sea light
or the fuzzy feel of clouds rippling playfully,
like whiskers across your unshaven five o'clock shadow
of a face nicked and bumped clean into the 21st century.
I know nothing ever turns back into what
it used to be except the soul dissolving into pure spirit.
This light, this light, light is.