Even the moon looks pockmarked.
Subduing my human, knowing where to look.
I can see it side-lit. a chunk
of old rock.
I can see it fall through orbit.
over barren parking lots
where the oblong, blockhouse offices
reflect a wasted white, or sickly
Everthing in this city glows or shines,
or burns out. I never knew nature had
so many ugly hues. It tinges the contours
of light, so each sight reflects the struggle
to keep the moon the moon,
the farms free of city, to keep the city
from stealing light.
Everything we make is ugly and radiant,
as my cigarette pack says: “art is what