We are told that among that obscene
dawn there are hideous pleasures hiding.
A study in disregard is permanent. Yes,
poetry is boring, but my poem has cats.
My poem is a lobster catch, verbena, some
impudent wry perception involving the moon.
God, I’m sick of the moon and all it portends.
I’m sick of the moon appearing in poems.
In so many words, fuck off, moon.
O, my naked cheese cover yourself with
a cracker and bombard my lips with passion.