eat sugar 

the moon crawls
on all fours in through 
the window after watching me
all night, great white eye with
the pupil gone wandering in the dirt
as an ant. hungry moon, i feed it 
spoonfuls of sugar in the kitchen,
sand-like white piles, i consider each 
grain a different word i would have said
if the moon was someone i loved or if the moon
knew anything about how much glow a human body
can have. i want to peel the moon open to look at it's 
organs. what kind of organs do moons have? maybe just 
the same as ours. there might be houses somewhere 
with no windows. the moon grows more legs 
the longer it stays on earth, unspooling,
a knot of centipedes, i pour sugar 
on the floor because the moon 
is impatient, i open the fridge,
get eggs to throw at the moon
who runs, hiding beneath 
the sofa, turning into
an egg itself, do you know 
that if you spin an egg
on the counter you can tell
if it's cooked or not? if it spins 
perfectly it's cooked, if it wobbles it's
raw, the moon wobbles, is a raw egg, i don't have
time to cook the moon, i step outside 
in the cold March night, which is supposed
to be spring but fucking isn't,
where i throw the egg at the sky 
hoping it will go back up there 
but instead it splats against 
a neighbor's window
so, i run back to inside,
peer out my own window,
through the blinds to see 
the moon sitting up there again,
this time as a hand mirror,
reflecting just my own 
face back at me,
close up. i go back
to the kitchen
spin eggs on the counter,
eat sugar.