by Robert Gross
Talk about the moon as a mushroom:
a fleshy obscenity sprung up
under cover of darkness
meant to be arrested at midnight
without memory or remorse
thirty-seven degrees from the horizon
booked in the nodding night court
mindless before high priests
who do not grasp its transit
cannot finger the musty
deliquescence of summer into fall,
the funky quick decay of thought
into sensations, the prison break
of a convicted self into a felony
of infinite quick fragments.
The authorities dare not interrogate
the moon in terms of silence.
They sentence it to death.