Report
By Alison Stone
The waning moon makes me feel vulnerable,
like watching a woman
with a slice carved from her side.
The American moon’s transgender,
formerly the German moon-god,
their sun-goddess’s spouse.
Flaming and fabulous,
our Mr. Sun dazzles in science-based
hot pink and fuchsia scarves.
What sense of entitlement lets me
dilly dally, skygazing,
lost in the diversity of myth,
dumb as a fetus
to procrastination’s many
evidence-based ills?
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