The Moon

The ingenious moon
shines in the paper house,
the little chairs made out of
balsa wood are flattened, smashed
to bits on their faces
in the hands of happy children.
Go away and be the moon,
kiss the moon’s face,
pet her head like a
duck’s head.
Go ahead and strike the moon,
shoot it with a BB gun, make
holes in it, little holes
so water can sift through there
and catch our silt, our grime, our dust.
The stuff left over
in the holes of the moon
will pile so high it will make another
earth, and we will sit on it
with our asses, and stand upon it
with our scorched feet.