she is the moon,

iridescent,

bound painful admiration for reasonable possibility

thighs veiled in white,

pale and crossed

she the angel with few acceptions

light acknowledges her eyes

she recited tragic way of anguish with no voice

for she speaks in absolutes

uttering these silent words like gold

only mortal enthusiasm makes her pity

she suffers immortal constancy

no pulse will beat

manifested in long deep fading

with no one to receive her

she summons the official struggles of gods

she prays to the curve of her hips, the fold of her stomach, the line of her neck

because she is the moon