I couldn’t cuddle the cold moon.
She spent too much time dethawing
on night’s granite counter,
dripping to death,
and could no longer be consumed.
The sloppy sidewalk glitters
with freshly shed lunar flesh,
a pale marble cradled in the crux,
flicked out of control
to be won by a wider circle.
No. It’s simply uncouth to visit
the oozing moon;
impolite to watch her wither,
pale behind antique lace,
a mucus-filled vapor rasp.
Despite the padded brassiere,
she’s losing muscle mass
and long-term memory,
her spine long-since bent,
waiting for the last cycle to pass.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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