There is within me
a moon-
a twilight Cézanne,
a barren Bhutan,
a dim-lit Rodin,
a mirage-less Sudan.

There is within me
a moon-
a post-war Japan,
a loveless Quran,
a last place at Cannes,
a Carson 'n couch
(without his McMahon.)

There is within me
a moon-
a 4th place finish in Laussane,
a certain Cohen sans his Suzanne.

a moon
a hunk of frozen rock, reflecting
gold sherd from all around
a spark in the dark, wholly drowned
the shiniest, hope-giving speck for years unbound

up close though,
should one
ever
dare to come
(of course none
ever
shall/have)
the sharp and unworn, no-color regolith

ever
alone, alone, alone he is
ever
on the verge of dirge he is

unhappily repeating to himself-
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself...

to himself,
to himself,
to himself...

by himself.