The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 4 | Page 52

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two poems by casey charles

Moonhunt.net

The man in the moon carries a few extra pounds.

He has eaten the top off too many sandwich cookies.

Yet as I drive south on cruise control into wind,

wind that suspends bluebirds and fills my eyes with dust,

my face long and longing, he lures me, this craggy top,

as dusk stirs mule deer into aprons behind blind curves.

I watch him, bald luna searching for a bottom

or just a hug. Poor fat man, not a day

over 25. We are all 25 online. The moon

never ages. Craters of his acne fade as his body

becomes a swimmer’s. Lithe satellite unable to land

the earth after so many posts, so many circles

around this cruel planet, so much chat. But gravity

keeps him searching for the heart of tides.

He swells above me on the abandoned field, on the edge

of town. My phone out of range, in vain I try to text

his profile, now rising above the mountains.

I want to be his friend—with or without benefits.

I drive south toward his body in the gloaming,

chase him, desperate for his touch. I can host.

Room under my comforter. His secret safe with me.