The Woman in the Moon
Enmeshed in an ensnarlement of tubes
(Crater tunneled from within, to crater),
Wearing her crescent horns,
A diagonal spiral across time..
Contemplating space and her own body,
with a sweetness only secrecy can own.
In her hair, becoming wings,
Neophyte meteors roam.
Seldom from pursed stone lips
Issues her chromatic breath:
Seen perhaps once a generation, then
Only by her lovers' vigilance.
When her temperature rises
Her horns gleam in the sunlight.
In her fertile eons the deep
Swelled and glowed and poured over
Her shell, as her chest heaved
And her rifts purpled with lust.
Now shielded by dry seas and grassless shores,
She continues to pull at her companion's
Liquidity, polarity, and life.
Yet in the silent cracking of dawn
She begins her month her day her night
Indifferent to the diminishing number
Of stony messages thrown by her friends.
Selene watches with a million hollow eyes
In that many directions for
One self sufficient jewel to come again.