I always thought
orange moonlight
from the corner of an
apartment, painted white's,
window was the best kind
of beaming beauty.
spring colored, natural light,
nothing else. it's beauty I ruin
with my idle self,
for I'd love to be spread on
the trimmed, moist grass,
enjoying the smell of nature's cut.
rather I'm slummed alone
on this paperback writer,
the moon glowing,
the glass a fourth empty,
The Beatles playing,
and the peace I need.