What is left to say about the moon
In fourteen lines, no less. I wonder how
To find in rhyme the wrath those curves arouse.
Consider that the earth is also round—
And you’ll lie cold beneath it very soon.
Your face in moonlight is a hatchet bare.
Funny I don’t see it anywhere.
I try to think about you not at all.
When you phone me I make other plans.
Every time I see you I taste metal.
I do not gauge myself a violent man
But sometimes I see fists instead of hands
And think of switchblade knives and not tin cans.