Down the street—the Moon sits in her house
sipping English Breakfast.
She stirs with spoon—the milk, sugar,
the black color—typhoon within the China
made brown and sweet. She dips a digestive.
It soaks the sweet tea—she takes a bite
then sees the Crescent shape she left—
she weeps—a tear falls into the tea
and now it is a bitter tea.
She sets the cup upon the saucer
on the wooden table next to chair—
a soft breeze tumbles through the window, tumbl'ing.
She leaves the chair—she walks the streets
with pale makeup.
Clouds pass before her—the sailors are made lost
and rodents dare the headlights.
What darkness is this? So still—
so still and, and soft. The silence welcomes
twilight.
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