If the moon had a pocket
he would not slide me in it.

I love the sight of him
the slight of him.

His consistencies
and insecurities,
only ever coming out
in the dead of the night,
is he anxious to see his lover
for fear that she may not be as
beautiful as the sun that replaces him
but rather as ugly as the
beaked birds that
pester and nag him.

Is that why he only sees her
in the wake of a hazy and lazy
dusk in newness of a short evening nap?