Jake Lenahan


Talk to the moon
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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