Whenever the moon, wispy and white, peeks out like a jilted polka dot spy from the blue, bluest -water color sky, I feel fooled, fumbled into farce. The next step I take lands on it surface, nose to the ground I examine it closely, aching for detail. Not as an entymologyst spears it's prey, but voyeur instead to keyhole-framed plays. No harsh terrain, counfounding expectation it is as though a cloud turned inside on itself and formed fluffy orb, cycling to my step, 'round and 'round I'd go. 'Til dizzied, I lose my hounddog grip and faint against the sky, I slip - Into my destined earthly plod, homeward bound and physics flawed.
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