She talks to the man in the moon for hours. She tells him everything, how she hates the sun, the stars get on her nerves, and the clouds, well, you can imagine. He knows how to listen. Only sometimes will he draw the branches across. He needs his sleep too.
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The cold moon broke tonight. Into small pieces, each shard sharp enough to cut. And she drew the shiny edge of one bright sliver across her wrist, again and again. And she wrote his name in her blood, wrote it in the dark of no-moon, then she scored through it.
The earth is a fragile place. Or so they thought. What actually happened was that the greenhouse gases rose into space. They escaped via a hole made in the protective layer of voile, thinned and frayed by the constant rubbing of aircraft tails. The earth survived but the moon cracked.
A black crow sitting on top of his red luggage, unmoving as the moon, he is forced to admit he is homeless. After flight and fight he can only stare,mouth unused.
Just as she could pick a ripened fig from a looming branch overhead, practice had taught her how to harvest the moon from the all-but-black winter sky. "Hold your hands wide and soft as if you expected her to suddenly fall into them. And when she quivers, pluck! "
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