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Luna the green and ungainly moon of acne and love and the quiet insanity that creeps on you monthly. These things it understands it is easy to see this What secrets has it that one face only speaks to us I imagine the other smooth and dark mirror the gentle laugher the sultry murmurer the lover of light that hides in the dark seeking windows to peek into for the illumination of lovers stabs light through the gossamer Wish for the moon pure white totality - its inviolate virginity when it was still a wonder long before any graceless shoe dared to so brazenly intrude upon the mottled splendor of its face, now downtrodden. Still secrets may reside inside and untouched and while years researched may cure all ills human logic will fail to spell the one word uttered at the tide's creation and now sole guardian of all that's secret between us Say what you will: no toast for the moon or its other neglected face, the antimoon, stuttering with cold, will ever suffice to extol a virtue which is new, which is you, and any large word will never be grand enough to make as stately a march upon a heaven as the long summer arc through luminiferous aether. I call tails upon you, silent silver dollar, and never know the outcome lest you tragic fall and bring end to us all: no answer is worth your loss.
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