Star burst blood vessels and the distance
between the porch and the moon.

Naked-legged I sit on the concrete
porch-- squat and sturdy like a toad--
like a foot rest full of melting
unread-- "funny" sections-- yellow
like my teeth in the morning.
I drink coffee like blood transfusion--
like eye lids-- like the night
when I always end up naked-legged--
underwear brighter when you turn
off the porch lamps. Sometimes
I wonder why we didn't teach our eyes
about the night-- the soup I sink 
in on the porch that is both shiny 
and liquid like a raining star--
the sleet is only a fragment--
we never lose the stars during the
day we just haven't trained our eyes to
see them. I'm teaching my self with
the porch light off-- blink like a 
toad only to feel your teeth
rake against my skin-- the mosquitoes
laugh at me sitting with no
pants and a knit cap drooping from my
head-- they laugh and guzzle 
my coffee like blood transfusion--
laugh and talk about how silly it
is for humans to try to see at night
when they've never even drank blood
or touched the moon. I say LOOK and I reach
up-- I touch the moon with an index finger--
and tell them I know things are ALWAYS
short and far and closer than ever before.
And a star falls. And my legs burst into
nebula or island or blood-freckle--
lay out on the porch-- pomegranate-seed
squash in the domains of my thighs--
I'm breaking like the edges of the moon
on the porch-- like the blue berry heels
like the stars that find a way to rain.
I'm sitting on unread "funny" sections 
and laughing with the mosquitoes at jokes
I don't understand-- but for some reason
laughing makes them funny.
I'm laughing at the moon
who never gets any jokes because
she's just too far away to hear
the ending-- turn the porch light on
so that there's something for
the mosquitoes to bang their heads again other
than my legs.
We're so close tonight.
So near.
So far.