The Moon over L.A.
The moon moreover spills onto
the paving stone once under foot.
Plants it there one in front.
She is no more than any other except her shoulders forever.
Keep riding she says vacant as the face of.
Pull over and give us a kiss.
When it hangs over the interchange
she and she and she. A monument to going nowhere,
a piece of work unmade by man. O moon
rise up and give us ourselves awash and weary—
we’ve seen it all and don’t mind.
Although the syntax is fractured, it makes perfect sense. It might be radically accessible or might not. What do you think? Oh and I called this post sliver of moon because what made me think of this poem was the sliver of moon at the horizon tonight, as black clouds scudded against a pale gold sky.