Big, fat, buttery Moon.
Baby’s face in the sky.
Tell me why you cry
fat buttery woe.

Does angry Mars threaten from above you
so far below, about to dash past rooftops
down to the safety of setting
of settling.
Like so many men I’ve known.
Where is fierce pride of independence?
Why is the best we expect
repentance, regret and remorse?
So much more was on
in the cards of romantic youth;
or were you just a stagnant pawn?
When we reconcile alone,
where is the virtue
to keep us warm?
Who are you, fool Moon, to cry like
a brat in the night?
No Solar solace — pity-filled
lesser light.  
Moon falls out of my sight. 
I’ve no stomach for dawn.