Maybe the moon is made of ice, not cheese,
And that's why it's so frightening.

Though on a warm night,
A summer night, it seems to smell like cheese

And offer us the comforts of its homeliness,
Grinning or moaning, looming,

Until the heart is stupid and cries,
"I love you, I want you, I need you .

I forget how it goes, but I'll remember:
It was like sunburned skin loaded with lotions

And still a little salty. Ice, I think,
And volcanic debris, like a face

Impossible to touch, kiss or see
Can haunt anyone. Moon, I think I met you.

I think you said, "Don't stand there
Gawking like a stalled comet. I know

What I am. You figure it out. Do something
Magical or disappear, you inadequate

Astronaut, you lunatic." Which was when
Moonlight turned me around and hit me.