Sleeping in a bed of trash,
the moon floats on the same,
"Stop trying to be the moon"
but what else is there to be
if not that?
Hamburger hands crumbling in the night,
had no one been looking,
you would've helped put them
back together
back together
you always go back
to the rat that bites those holes in you,
holey, holy, wholly alone,
if you keep believing
that the moon is made of cheese,
then you cannot be anything
except the moon.