Maybe it was those nights swilling moonshine,
the torn shirts, occasional blood, but mostly
posturing, that ended soaked in dew and puke
while morning things, voices like creaks
of fraying rope, shed feathers, jeered at Venus
straining to hold the sinking moon above
the horizon, to stretch the night a little further.
She never could and always fled herself, diving
deep into the sea, down where the thick green
water’s cold grasp squeezed to no avail. Maybe
it’s why we bathe in moonlight now, gasping,
under white-flecked stars like sprays of saliva,
the cool astringence goose-pimpling skin, hands
buried in sand melting to the green glassy sea.