You Cheshire smile, you silver sliver. How many tides have you pulled? You flash-lit nostril. How many slightly different weights have you finagled? Your presence makes shadows on the beaches romantic, eerie. The menses moons of my child-bearing years. I have one thing I need to tell you, so listen. You can not pull me away into fear anymore you giant casaba melon. I know you are my moon and you love me. Quit hiding behind those clouds. What size were you when Kennedy died? Where were you in the sky when Bernie plagued us with his pyramid? Fleetwood Mac is telling you “Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice… Oh… and it lights up the night…” Maybe brighter than you, moon. Wax, wane, all the same; moon of my tomorrows.