The moon begins to flow—

reveals herself,

conceals herself,

then somebody squeals: oh!

and disintegrates the sky.

Gloss-face drapes herself

in a chorus of clouds.

Bread’s set out on the table. Soup’s on.

They say a naked woman

is beautiful by moonlight.

Rough voices, red faces

munching mushrooms; they

drink, dribble, bolt about.

I can’t get away from you, ever.

The sky takes scraps of blue, black, gray,

quietly quilts them into evening.

And they’re busy gobbling the caviar.