I only prayed to the moon after it rose beyond my window, the white sill a frame for waning crescents and gibbouses--milk-drowned gods dripping stars as they climbed skeleton branches-- some nights resting behind flood-heavy clouds. People say the moon has a face, but I have yet to see it sneer at my sins even as it tastes my ocean-drop tears, evaporated into sky-bound veils, brushed along the shadowed craters ...
The moon itself bemoaned imperfections in midnight wind creaking branch against branch until I woke slow from sleep--sad light staining my walls pallid, pale as my own skin, glowing in muted television shows left running while I dreamt the moon spilled a star between my ribs-- dim luminescence radiating warm, and the star, seeping through my pores, thawed the ice I had prayed to melt in the first place.