a certain thought’s been absolutely
pounding at me—heavyweight showdown,
ounce for bloody ounce—so, of course
I gotta get her down lest she escape
forever, ya know?

without further ado, it is: that
her smile is like the crescent moon,
the freezing, life-giving space rock
in all of its lunar beauty and awe,
shrouded a bit, just after midnight
and glowing just right…

but, it’s accompanied immediately
by (siamese twins; hand-holding lovers;
prisoners, shackled and chained) the thought
that that would be too easy—(I have no
idea from where these conclusions coalesce,
but that’s a whole ’nother story for
a whole ’nother day)—so, *see title

instead, it’s the opposite:
that moon? it takes after her
smile, especially when she
breathes “oohh” in my ear
in tones of warm cinnamon and
honeysuckle, traveling up from
that elegant trachea and passing
through those perfect lips…

I’ve never met her, I don’t
know who she is, for all I know
she doesn’t even exist—

and some vibrant suggestion
from some omniscient source
indicates that all of this
couldn’t be more right—
but that last part?

that last part couldn’t be more wrong.