Veering wildly from the path of narrative since 1999.
Here's the poem as I originally wrote it. I decided that it was better with a little pruning:Suppose you are the moonand you find an army of men,crawling on your skin,building a city under glass domes.Suppose the cranes moving all the dirtfrom pile to pile keep you upall night. But then again,it's always night.Suppose it's all a monumentto their ego: a tower of Babel.Glory, glory moonmen.Cry quietly over your loss of privacy.
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Here's the poem as I originally wrote it. I decided that it was better with a little pruning:
Suppose you are the moon
and you find an army of men,
crawling on your skin,
building a city under glass domes.
Suppose the cranes moving all the dirt
from pile to pile keep you up
all night. But then again,
it's always night.
Suppose it's all a monument
to their ego: a tower of Babel.
Glory, glory moonmen.
Cry quietly over your loss of privacy.
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