Saturday, January 20, 2007

Eating the Moon

The evidence is in: I killed the moon
And ate the last unpasteurized green cheese
It's made of. Evidently, the dark breeze
That issued loudly made the people swoon,
Complaining that they didn't like the tune
Or how I played it. I attempt to please,
But sometimes I can't beat those prophesies
Of flying porkers, or of snow in June.

So what is it you're doing to explain
To all these weeping children, how it goes
When someone stumbles, and steps on your toes
Without intending to inflict that pain,
Like me, here? I admit it, once again:
I ate the moon, moments before it rose.

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