Struck by the Moon (for Joe Pug)

on the airplane to Atlanta. This gut honest moon
that rips truth out of myth, out of garbage mountains
swirling and piling and covering the face of the Earth,
that takes words and twists them into something more

and then says words are just words,

that twists the logic of honesty and places it in perfect
three minute form, harmonica and guitar accompaniment
included, that digs up relics of history, digs up timeless
axioms and sings them from the lakes of Michigan,

sings them to be sung, that doesn’t care who is listening
but knows they are, knows that razor truth
cannot be ignored for too long, that strikes people
in the strangest places - on the bus, in the street -

when it shouldn’t be strange to be struck
but the righteous moon doesn’t come round too often.