Go follow the moon again.
His siren song seeps
through the afternoon haze,
dimes in the sky. Pinch your thumb
and forefinger together: there he is.
It looks like he’s trying to say something to you,
but it all just translates into loose change.

There’s something to be said, I think,
about building yourself out of something else.
If all you are is ever a reflection, there’s still identity in
the opposite. I like to imagine the moon, building (budding?) himself,
out of spare photon bricks of light. Perhaps he made
himself a birdcage, or a looking glass; a parallel.

Well if you won’t follow, I will.
I think he’d appreciate some company.
It must get pretty lonely
being the sum of someone else’s parts.