Some men have two moons. Unnatural. Romantic like we all are with our hearts multiplying for when one gets broken. And those of us with many moons are lambasted regularly by the upright. They believe certain words should be used only once – at least sparingly – and that history is a way to work out the value of what people say. It's arguable they are deceived by time. These same critics allow language to become a sea when it is, in fact, a lightning bolt. Like when I wait and see my second moon I am always struck. There are marks upon it, like text, small and dark as if birds had dragged their feet through sand and it always pulls its knees to its chin so as not to crowd me as I seek the sky. Neat and white it sits becoming hungry only when a tree sails too near. It uses the muscles in my eye to grow as large as a sombrero and then with massive effort convinces all kinds of earthly things to make shadows at night. When I see this I write a poem using the word 'moon' forty-three times. The day after such indiscretion I am run out of town. One small incident of bad taste or terror and they think confining themselves to a less pretty term will give authenticity to their false authenticity. My hat tosses upwards and gets caught on a star. Raised recently in my hands to where time goes, it, too, soon disappears like the fashionable at my back.