by Chris Bittner
Everyone Owns the moon: The deaf, the dumb, The insane, the pretenders, The blind might seem the sole exception. But they feel the moon more clearly. Who howls at the sun? No one. Wolves and crazy women find their lovers, Ever in the act of coming and going, In van Gogh’s brazen sky. There is no intimacy in the blazing of days, Relentlessly running out their course, self-absorbed, Sweating. The moon takes all the time you want, All the time you need. Sleep on it. Slow on cool firefly summer’s eve and Winter’s warmth: a lampshade, and friendly, really.
