What color is it? that luminous light
throwing patterns past midnight under my
archway, and on the sand of the ocean
where I used to walk, wading home in the surf
from Moore's dance floor, where there was a real
live band on Labor Day at summer's end,
where window after window facing the roiling
sea brought a salt aphrodisiac as if
the moon was not enough?
Is it the pale blue of Roquefort, or more like Stilton,
color of cream, you might say, more radiant than light
spilled by the indecent bright glare of the Sun God?
It's the 'Minuit' stare of the Maid In The Moon, no
matter its color. She wakes us from sleep to put
our feet in her deep-cast beauty, to trouble
our hearts for lost youth and love, and if she's
not made of cheese, as fairy tales tell us -- No
matter! She brings us to our knees.