Lunarscape, the echo
we long for – there is no night
like this, the yellow lip
quivers, rocks, the face as it
faces the dark side of the moon
looks away, moves
its belly on red sand
ready to take whatever the day
on this given ground, delivers.
And hope, the buttercup shine
of a baby-eyelid
smacks its petal-lips in spite
of hard line horizon
between earth and sky –
the moon, like an egg,
tips in the indigo:
alone the flower-faced spirit
knows nothing.