Moon, I run a dungeon you’ve seen from above.
Inside I mold each plastic keepsake
the tide removes from the candles’
shattered circle on the beach.
Moon, my name is Simon.
I’m 31 years old.
I hate the feeling of breath behind the nose,
believe glitter comes from the sea.
I’ve seen you behind a snow globe,
freed your lung from spring’s hinge.
Moon, it’s important that when we sleep
we uncover the madness each day
steals from the garden of our hands.
It’s important that when we whisper
to the dark that we never mention its darkness.
Moon, this isn’t for you.
This is for your likeness.
I have a shovel it painted with night.
Have a belief your fading color will stain.