The late slipping beer of moon
Pours along the nearest green shadows
Round and shining—frothy, alcoholic
In all its treat:
A burning plate-
A heavy crown to our illustrations
A pull to wildest rhymes
Poetry in its nature
To seduce and intoxicate
And pull apart the proudest
Lyrics of sanity.
A wild tattler—the moon.
We hear a siren in the distance-
Deep inside the corners of stars
And we easily blame
The distress on him
For he shines his blinking light
Proudly against the trees
And inside the deepest tides of vertigo
And we shoot our speculations
Into his face sinking like fire
Against the cool firs.
He is the monster
To devour in midnight feasts
Because he is so loud in all his glory
And therefore must be the cause.
Masiela Lusha
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/late-moon-2/
