So sad, the moon dreams of being a movie star, but is paralyzed

In the sky. Only her many cousins

Go out for dessert with paralegals who caress them

Before sleeping along the road, under signs warning “Detour.”

The dosage for Saturday’s matinee was an avalanche of pills,

So on a deathbed she coughed up a book-length hit of poisons

And sashayed it out near the white eyes of medical experts

Who stood around blue in the face against everything medicine had taught, and to hell with it.

When on this globe, in a bird-like limousine,

She lies back, filing down her nails at a rate alarming to the driver’s eyes.

The church must bring lunch to this enemy of the soleil.

In the crux of her hand she takes a pale alarm clock

And resets it as she wishes. She wishes for a broken pail

To filter out the sea for the lion’s eyes of the sun.