The yellow moon hung heavy
In the sky.
Incredibly close
So I could see
Its pockmarked face
Leering at me.
Almost feel the brush
Of its cratered mouth
In a puckered kiss.
And smell its methane breath
Down my neck
As it negotiated the galaxy.
It hung low,
Caught in the branches
Of the tree
By the lake,
A golden pancake
Skewered on the bough's upturned fork,
Delectable tidbit in the celestial feast.
It was, at the same time
A copper plate
Off which the fairies ate,
With obvious relish,
A rare, ambrosial dish.
A gossipy globe, it was,
Cut off from its moorings
As it hobnobbed
with the hoi polloi
Of inferior alloy.
And stranded on the highway
Of hope, the winking amber light
In the cold midnight,
Held up the traffic
Of my thoughts,
As I remained lost
In my moon gazing tryst.