sittin here thinkin bout movies
moon. movies and popcorn and
hippos and
you.

eatin the brats without buns
moon. if you saw the buns
you’d be skippin ’em too.

this little piggy had oatmeal
moon. this little piggy had rum.
this little piggy
sailed away.
in a boat. and that
little piggy…

is gone.

gonna write you a long, long letter
moon. send it out cross the prairie
till it tumbles to you.

 

thanks a whole bunch for the notes
moon. scrapbooks and wine.
…remembering you.

how cold does it get on the moon,
moon? how hot does it get on the sun?
how high is the high
at the top of the sky when the bottom
of low comes undone?

how wide is the middle
without picking sides? how thin
is a sliver of hope? and who do you tell
when there’s no way to tell if we’ll end up
right back at the start?

steppin into a room fulla mystery
moon. gonna hide in plain sight.
in the middle.
of you.

wound up like a big ball of yarn
moon. unwind you and knit us
a sweater or two.

If the Moon Wrote an Ode to Bacon…

…And how we all know you’d take one
(or in truth twenty-five)
when the pan passes by
with such crispy deliciousness catching
your eye…

whether candied in maple
or just set on the table
there’s no better treat—
peppered, sizzlin, fried, baked, wrapped, stuffed,
shoved inside
of your mouth when it’s
hot and it’s fresh and we
secretly wish we had
boxes and crates and
a hundred-some plates
for an ongoing feast of this
salty, cured meat
that we

can.

not.

stop.

cravin:

Bacon.

train
                 whistles        
          after  
                      midnight

                             moon, play hide and
seek from lake to lake like
steel-gray rocks stuffed in
your nephew’s pocket–

slivers of darkness escape
and skip
across the water.

ripples only
if you see them. echoes only
if you hear.

burned up our shoes by the campfire
moon. lost track of time
reminiscin bout you.

fit as a fiddle
moon, tight as a drum. more brass
than a tuba and
twice.
as.
much. 
fun.

not full and a whole lotta blustery
moon. no rest for the weary
storm chasin with you.

half a silver dollar
moon. we’d spend more than that
to keep dancin with you.

what if we nap in the car
moon. will that get us
up to you lickity-soon?

spread you around on a scrabble board
moon. triple our scores
with the likes of you.

(Jim‘s claimin cubicle’s spelled with a Q)
(Jane‘s checkin the rules…)

paint the room green and do cartwheels
moon. since you asked, that’s exactly
what we’re gonna do.

rollin out all the red carpet
moon. then we’ll roll somethin else.
here’s lookin at you.