not wet like mars

faces in the moon tonight
are irritated primitive men;
the sun we can explain.

fat hitler is cheeky, now
has sideburns, now does not;
skeleton face has a normal

back of head; then the two
pulling taffy masks, each
seeming to protrude from

the other's brain. earlier,
it was the solid rim in heaven/
demonstration of a circle

as not a shape at all, but
rather nature herself, a
drop or stain, beaten up

the spinning started by
blows, a golpe, as a boxer's
jaw becomes weak.

then the babbling starts,
tongues wagging at the sight:
that circle becomes a hook

and rather stays there, grinning
it has no effect on us
except for it's cold breathing

it seems to say that our lives
have no meaning. deadness
of dust, not tundra that jets

into the atmosphere
when a tragectile hits.
the moon can be deceiving.