the moon starts from a dog's ass
after he's buried someone alive
and then looks up to be congratulated
like a river that did something right
for the first time in its life.
I don't see what you see
with your gold green eyes
that are more beautiful than anything
and deserved to be plucked
out of your lovely skull with a tea spoon
and put on display in a Manhattan museum.
most of me is forgotten
by the time you brush your teeth,
so my demise is not anything
but a poem in a bullshit blog
lost in a dense fog-forgotten forest of time.
if you sit still for an hour and a half
and not breathe, you may be able to feel me
buried beneath a heart beating
on a bench in Union Square,
there, where it all became...