The moonlight rouses me at half past three,

piercing through thick curtains I had drawn,

but for this gap. My heavy-lidded eyes

return the glare. What’s this bald rock to me

but glassy basalt leering from the skies

indecently before the wholesome dawn

can chase it off? I know the facts: We need

the moon to stop earth wobbling on its axis,

thus regulating temperature; besides,

it tells the sea’s invertebrates to breed.

But I’m evolved; immune to lunar tides,

and have no love for any fool who waxes

nostalgic when he drinks light second-hand,

and uses this excuse for acting strange.

I rambled through the streets at night in June.

Now it’s too cold to climb a fence and stand

beneath a balcony, begging for a spoon

of wild honey, pleading for small change.

My life has waned beyond that phase; it’s cast

into the iron calendar I keep

to pay my bills — the lasting consequences

of midnight walks in my moonstricken past.

It’s someone else’s turn to lose his senses.

The clock stays set for five. It’s time to sleep.