for a year, I didn’t see the moon.
I stayed in bars, drinking and watching dusk
change the color of bottles and wood.
I watched the last of the sunlight sink into
glasses of bad wine, as the moon passed.
late at night, I made love to dictators, nuns,
night owls, all while the moon went on
its evening commute. I didn’t part curtains
to look at the moon, I didn’t peek out
the frosted glass window of a stranger’s bathroom
as I peed. the moon had no leash, and the moon
had no loyalty. neither did I. both of us
repeated our motions without meaning.
whenever the moon returned,
I was in a bar, watching the beautiful people
who swim in my glasses of wine:
they are small, and float on their backs
for hours, or do laps across the surface of my drink.
when they tired, they sank to the bottom of my glass,
drowned, and eventually I drank them all up –
all this while the moon passed overhead.
even when I went outside to catch a breath
of cold air, I didn’t look up at the moon,
because I didn’t want to envy the endlessness
that surrounds it. deftly, I tossed my glass into
the back of a passing garbage truck.