Johnny speaks moon.

Johnny sells newspapers,

Johnny eats stars for late-midnight snacks,

fills his stomach

     with something dead, or about to be.

You’ve heard about the light,

you’ve heard, right?

It is dead by the time it reaches us.

Johnny speaks moon,

Johnny lives in his arms,

creates constellations out of freckles,

takes pictures of arms next to arms next to arms

where he makes the universe.

Ours.

Connects the moles, bruises, birthmarks, stars

stars.

Johnny speaks moon.

Johnny shells out pennies for old pens, talks to gas station clerks about

    string theory

then buys string

as a joke.

Johnny speaks moon,

seeks God in empty white mugs,

sells newspapers.

Because

                                this is what we’ve become,

but Johnny speaks moon

and laughs.