Audience, Moon.
Ten feet behind me, to the left,
is the moon.
Broken into glass eyes
and silver bundles of floating rocks
strung around the stars.
I can hold her in my palm tonight
and she rests, like steam and steel,
sure of her existence.
I rest too, windows open,
in case she needs me
in a moment of inspiration.
She is the seer of nocturnal wonderings,
and we, as freshly showered, lemon scented puppets,
are merely the evening's entertainment.
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