---

The famous poet said the moon
was a tired image;

tired of its milky opalescence;
its spoilt, pocked face
and fatty
jaundiced glow;

tired of casting the colours
of night into shadows
of crisp crepe
palm leaves.

But…

the moon said it really
wanted to shimmer
(like chiffon)
behind a mystic’s cloud;

really wanted to slop
around tidal pools,
and spill
between lovers’ cleaving limbs;

really wished its waves’
scattered radiance
could lick
and ladle

prophets and poets
between its watery
duck-mouthed
lips.

---