The nights I have gazed
   to the black shore and back
the stars, themselves, appraised
   the worth of the black.

To sail solar flares
   and to ride without wings
among the sparkling heirs
   we are mere fledgelings.

How errant I am
   to seek cloudy castles.
Across dark skies I swam
   to meet the battles,

Only to be late
   with my compass at hand.
It was clearly a stalemate
   upon the land.

What Man in the Moon—
   What Spirit of the Night—
Could make a cricket croon?
   Or claim the starlight?

So shall I never
   know who hung the moon up
'til sweet death endeavors
   or until sunup.

The willowy wind
   sends my thoughts to the sky;
And the Moon simply grins
   from his perch up high.

Who hung the moon?
   Who hung the moon?

As the aeroplane
flies across the moon
I have a picture of you
in my mind.

Just like the red light
blinking lazily 'gainst the blue,
my heart is calling
my futile sense blind.

When you grin so easily
you have me shaking
like a falling, frail leaf
in a spring-green breeze;

On a night like this
I just want your hand in mine,
and we'll stargaze while love
plays us like piano keys.

The cry of the wind
soothes the ache
of all this urban living
that draws at our last lust.

Dreams that are feathery
and eyes perceiving all I am within,
shall we stare at the constellations
until our bones are dust?