Ode on a Pale Moonlight

I can’t stop her fire burning.

She waves to me from the inside of a cup,

And behind my porridge at breakfast.

She sings to me after Ulysses and before Asphodel,

Yet never in the insomnia in the retrograde plasma.

She laughs with me in yearly praise at the madness ensured,

Unseeing to the unnatural eye

Wiping the shore.

She knows the cadaver, has seen it once,

Yet has never felt the silver lily

Touch the palm of her hand.

She has bitten pale flesh, and yet,

Has never swished away her milky redness,

To stir in a bowl.

She has hollowed the navel and yet,

Is unsure to her fate.

She has tasted the pale moonlight,

Yet never tearing hard.