The man in the moon's
got too many kids.
It's too damn lonely
up there in the shadow
of the sunlight.
Nobody pays him to
watch over the cats.
Not even the hippies
can remember who
lives up there.
He's old and dying now;
aching for a familiar
soft and dry dream.
When he fucked us by
the moon's stolen light
we forgot how to sleep
in the crawlspace of the
mirror,
and that intoxicating spirit
of ghosts, gods,
and angels
cast that light
right into silence.
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