If you could turn the moon on a lathe, you would because you are curious.
And that would explain why the moon slivers, but explain it stupidly by not taking care to ask how the moon rounds.
And so we go, stupid ideas for feet.
The better to wander with, retort the feet, and what can you say, you who shaved those taut spirals from the moon, kinks of tightening light that fell away from your attention to your work growing smaller the better you did it?
Threads on a screw, the worm of a corkscrew, the circular staircase to sleep....
Soon the moon is gone as far as it can go and still come back.
Soon there'll be no room for you: the moon will be all stomach, like a melon.
The nest you've been meaning to leave is inside, aslosh with seeds.
Around the outside you curl like the sky that goes away forever.
