and how gracious of
you to shed your poppy light,
o moon, o moon…ah,
‘twas a sloppy sight
when the well-fed mouse sat high
in evening’s larder,
taking his repast
along the swirling arbor
in cheese-chunked cheer - a
cheeky spectacle!
(and Bacchus poured wine at the
bleary festival)
yet ‘neath the light of
the silvery opiate
was not such a feast
ill-appropriate?
returning betimes, orb to
sliver - the foul luck
of lunar mishap,
the haply intervallic
waxing lyrical
across the stations,
the satirical waning
of lost gestations
which gave men pause and
(with the sea in collusion)
cursed their wives with the
purdah’s seclusion…
and you await, fool’s fashion,
the coming eclipse
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