It has been so long

since I have seen

even a casual moon


I forget I can eclipse the habits

of my lifetime, dust off my boots

and walk the craters and frozen lakes

of my skull. If anyone asked, I would say


yes to the orbits and satellites, would order a main of impact

basins and finish with freeze-dried ice-cream. I would populate

the dark with ghosts of my own and on certain days, stuck down

here, I remember it all – Summers of burning plastic in the woods,

night-long fasts, the smell of mom’s hairdresser; wet, singed hair,


flowered with alcohol and I know there is no honey or blood and no cheese

nor face begging for a flag and how sad I am when myths wane, when I learned

all the chimpanzees, snakes and sounds went up to meet nothing. If anyone ever

asked I would like to say Yes, somewhere out there, yes, she is a patron of the arts,

yes, she pulls, yes if there is anything but crust and magma I will lift my red nose up

in winter and beg to be pulled like a tide, told to move whenever she is swollen


and zaftig. I might cut my hair in slivers, might darn old socks and make time to walk outside where I can see

but not touch my lanky breath, might bake a cake iced gibbous and ready for any ghost who knocks. They tell me

tonight the moon will return fully dressed in her best gambling gown, ready to be seen as she truly is; as I might one day

be known from a distance in tux and tails. Tonight, I will look up. Tonight l look.


published on The Guardian Local: Edinburgh, 2010.