MOON MEAT

all the eyes I have are doll’s eyes.
i sleep where the dreaming is all skies
and scrimshaw. I etch my dreaming into bone.
with all my cumbersome remedies
failing to foist the umbrage
of my knee-jerk calliope.
how my nerves Minerva without Wisdom.
As my tyrannies conspire
to abide,
 
so much moon meat in the hemispheres
of our intangible remove.
the way we aggressively subside
as we quietly entomb.
in bejeweled annihilation
we rupture the clumsy idylls
of our celibate moons.
 
star flesh wrinkles in a tar pit
of perfect flowers.
 
like you.