Another Saturday Night

It's the idiot rampage

The sunken haze

The transported indifference that the moon gazes on, languishes on

As if the stars curl on its bosom to light its sight

The man held frequently in the orb there is all but a shadow

A fleeting soft stone glances at the world savouring the circumference of floating stations

Far removed from drama the night windows make their noises below the shine

Waiting, like a lamb without a fold

Waiting, an act lacking distinction

Waiting, to bring them home to me

The marrow-gifting bone may be the only cosmic matter that matches the view.

The shine from each grows in strides

There is life waiting too to shine through shadows at the door

Reflecting on words like the man on the moon