The moon is full of stories told
in grandfatherly rumbles as it holds
night in its crescent lap. You heard
the tale before, although the words
were different then. But eyebrows rolled

above the rising dawn bold
and gray the same as it unfolds
today. The arching backs that purred
“The moon is full

of shit.” now lick at their assholed
dissatisfactions on an old
concentric oval rug. Obscured
by dust on the lampstand, a blurred
photograph stares beyond its golden
frame. And as the stars grow cold
the moon is full.