Probably like Dick Shelton, I not only
have very strong feelings about the desert,
I have very strong feelings about the moon.
And I sometimes feel sorry, almost,
for the people who read a lot of my poems
because I think they must think, doesn't she
get tired about writing about those two things?
And they just keep cropping up no matter what I do.
So this is probably one of my favorites about the moon called
Luna Luna.
I slice the moon quickly for it tugs to slip away,
to glide back on its beams.
On nights white with her fullness,
I sit alone deep in the desert, away from noisy lights.
Hearing wise wind, lone owls, until she hypnotizes me again
and all is white blaze.
My arms reach to her.
My fingertips stretched to draw her, draw her
into my lap only for a moment while I peel a pale host
before she slides away.
I slice the moist, sweet flesh into slivers,
store the glow in a cloth bag.
I feed it to women sad with their bodies.
Some nights, I taste La Luna myself,
my lids shut as she drifts through me, opens my eyes.