Almost noon and the fading moon
still afloat in the celestial froth
in the western azimuth —
but now feigning that she is
not more but another trifling cloud
among other ephemeral gasps —
at least for those whose gaze
either quickly passes by
or barely lifts off the ground:
since what else is there to be seen,
up in the sky — when, there by the sea,
all’s daubed and shaded in whites and blues,
and some tense birds, picking, pecking chasers
into Aphrodite’s foam, are then rushed in turn?
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