We have made much of this wily moon,
her rebel comings and her goings,
her invisible tide sky-strings,
the quiet way she ducks
and dives and dis
milky skin within
your own; set your beat
to the so-small feet of her bay
-ing. She sings your muchness
and your nothing. She leaves too soon.
It’s November, when we go most mad and moonly, and poem something every day. Wanna play? November PAD.