Confessions of a Poet

The Moon has left her
curtains open. She’s so wanton my eyes almost
hurt to look. My telescope gets
longer and I see her naked
craters, her shameless
seas. Then the hand on my
shoulder. The policeman speaks of the
window in which a woman in a
bath is clearly seen.
They drive me away and the wanton
Moon comes too.
I cannot even now avert my
gaze.

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