the artist clinging, the moon doesn't care. this will not be remembered.

the moon
isnt very fond of me
hasent been very good to me
as if the moon -- being
THE moon--
would take a moment
everything you do I
fall on doing
you step forward coyly
in the gallery filled
with
what we all know
are portrits of you
your arms crossed behind your back
your subtle dark flesh colored
knee length
silk skirt
wants to grab onto you
the shirt
that is scruffy and man like
tucked in it
you smile at everyone
your hair loose
untidy curls
I am everything you do
I
 my pen
these paintings I have filled the walls
with
all these people from wherever they come from and wherever they will go
and all the crazy powerful things they have done
maybe eve the moon was fond of them
has come to see what I have filled this room with
I am nothing but what you are and what you do
I am nothing but your hungry skirts and
your shy motor
I am nothing but your humility
I am nothing but the specs that cling
to the frizz
of your hairs.
all these portraits soon enough
hanging on the wall of some great thing
cement collision of men and wonen coming to pretend
passion is distributable or
everlasting
will be molds/
and ashes.