While in china at night on the great wall
By a hill, there he writes about the moon
His shadow his flute and his
Cup of rice wine,
Then he sings for a while
And sleeps under a sky of stars
On a blanket of soft grass,
When he immigrated
To the American city
He writes differently now
About the moon
As the companionless
wanderer
The head of a murdered man
Rolling on the floor
Uncontained by a sack
A moon
Or some kind of a fluorescent
Truant
A silver circular corpse
Infected with AIDS,
That corpuscle confusing
And ovulating
Him, spoon feeding
Her with so much longing
Date-rape drug, where she howls like
A bitch
To the moon in that great American
City
I just like it here,
The moon is still my
Moonchild
my fair lady of the night
In all shining glory
Above the mango tree,
In this little country..
RIC S. BASTASA
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/about-the-moon/
