A big bright moon flutters on the building
Red and dead, pale from a far off eclipse.
A local eclipse over mom – sponsored bath
Is only recalled as we remember her dead.
The moon is dead from mother’s story on,
A moon rising to be dead for eavesdropping
On a demon taking nectar to stealthy lips
Defying a moon-like beauty in rows of gods.
A hunter’s moon shall rise, whole and bright
To be slow-eaten in crumbs by a penumbra.
Good, we are not to be blamed for this here.
It is a bloody American moon that is eaten.