A battered staircase leads to must,
a bookcase glimmers in lunar dust-
bathed by piercing cratered swoons
a parade of pears in yellowed lace
pins your retina to a waxing place,
the red rust redolence of indolent musk
spells with brief sleep the patina of moons:
every insight an insight
into the futility of insights.
In that lumina of nocturnal shade
you were the lizard on the arid shale,
shorn of scales on the dizzy down.
You thought it was astral to neatly creep
in parallel to the course of spooky stars:
pointing at Polaris, you were misinformed.
It's not that is was evil,
it's just that it was pointless.
Four months of perfect aridity
there in the polished mirror-
you still do not taste your gods,
here in the breathing desert.