The Moon moves her eyes across the lid of the earth,
beckoning all the sleeping world up into her arms.
The Moon is a feminist rallying against the Sun’s higher wages,
hiding jars of coins and reflections of water beneath her petticoat.
The Moon still sees me as a child, she bleeds in a pearl
that pours haemoglobin as ghosts within ripped sheets.
The Moon passes me by without so much as a by your leave,
it was only last night that she held away the nightmares until dawn.