Through my windshield the moon
is a golf ball lost in a pond,
green and liquid.

Maybe the world is really floating,
and there is also sky beneath us.

If my God were up there
he would criticize us in our fishbowl,
his divine nose pressed to the glass,
his immortal fingers smudging.

Once, in a movie, a woman drowned.
It's strange,
your mouth full of water,
looking up to see the moon defined and
as white as the flash of your legs
tumbling down, down, down.

It's like making love at night,
mouth opened for air that's all used up.