Moon in her Arms

(from the moon seires)

A baby moon in a bundle walked down the street
in the winter wrapped in maroon blankets
in the purple of the night when people pass
and wonder if she has a home and cafes
look so cozy inside.

That little moon in her arms.

What would she do if it died? Probably not worry
so much. So you ask for alms. So she eats
from the garbage. So she pours love out
from her breasts and she gets spit on by pigs.

While all the while that little moon wanes
and wilts and weeps, an unknown treasure waltzed
into dreamland amongst the Russian tongue;
under bitter flakes fallen from gray sky
in the motherland with her back slowly turned.