Tonight I want to devour the moon. And when I say devour, what I mean is be devoured by, I want her to take the soft creature of my body into her mouth and bite, I want to be tasted, I want to be known, I want my flesh to feed the poetry of another, like others’ flesh has fed mine. And when I say the moon, what I mean is the light she catches from the cosmos, and also the light that disappears into darkness when she wanes. And when I say darkness, what I mean is the things that lie in abeyance, hidden from one kind of sight, but known to another.

Tonight I want to devour the moon. A machine could produce these same words in the same order, and it would be a shiny decal, an illusion of depth. But when I write, I mean exactly what I say and a thousand other things besides, alive and wriggling beneath the surface, proof of fertile ground, the rich humus of the soul.