Lune
Every night,
when the moon looks in,
all he sees is me,
howling inside myself.
Every night,
I wonder if he howls back,
or if he can,
being celestial.
Every night,
perhaps we howl silent harmonies-
interior fugue logic-
together neath the twinkling.
Every day,
when the moon attends night elsewhere,
I howl alone in my own night,
where no one looks in.
Every day,
when the sun glares down to cook me,
and etches 'don't look at me' into my corneas,
I draw the shades.
But every night,
when no other stars will stoop,
my moon comes hurtling back to my window,
and so gladly I attend his night.