Godmother Moon, behind oodles of festering night:

as you came from the Black Madonna,

so also did the mother of the mother of my mother,

one hundred thousand times over.

I imagine you seeing her then, as you

peek over the cloudy shrubbery of the sky:

That learning creature, muffled in the writing skein of time…

I always imagine the macadamia-nut brain shut behind her simian face,

and wonder what she thought of you and your unshaven expression.

Maybe, while steeping in the silent attic of her mind,

she turned to you, pleaded with her dark, quivering eyes, pursed her lips and forced a single sound–”Pah,”—

and you have been tethered to our perpetual foolishness ever since.