the moon must be crazy
in the way that it glows
when it does,

for only ***** things
happen at night,

at twilight is when the
hungry men prowl
for the ripened darlings
in their lacy things -

when the fingers of
the raving ones
are stickiest in their
rabid breaths,

in the time that
wallows in the dust
of the stars' dusky debut
is where the shadows
are livened with
all things creeping
and perilous,

though,

it was in my
silken milk moonbath
that i rinsed the nagging
sharp terrors from my
fortitude undergoing
a quickening,

and in the pool of light
amid the crystal rocks -

that i gave my fervent
wet hearted
soliloquies.

--

lest i forget,

it was in the
late moon's lament
with his opal grand aura
painting softly my glowing path
that i embraced the silent
white cub, in his quaky
ascent who radically
up-ended my
existence.

--

treasured Sir Moon
in your tremulous
spry loon

i trust the satin truth
in the madness you brew.