Nightfall
The moon only sees the world
dreaming,
its hallucinations
flickering behind half-closed blinds
like so many old movie reels

Here are geysers of the
surreal.
Here are time and space nude,
having cast off their duties and
enjoying the delights of themselves,
legs wrapped around another
in incomprehensible arrangements.

The moon watches through
perforations in stratus clouds,
noting each small change.
Infant dreams blossom-
just flashes of color, really-
while a familiar motorcycle ride
through what wasn't always city
curls in and becomes dark,
becomes nothing,
like paper in fire.

In some black, distant ocean
which may only be a dream
fluorescent jellyfish surface
to bask in moonlight
fields of them, rabid violet
inflating, deflating.
the moon sees towns too
populations undulating
the chests and ambitions
of their people inflating
deflating
but ultimately floating in place.