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.