(For Once) The Moon Attends the Man

I swear you carved him
to prove your self-assurance
(self-commitment to self-awareness,
self-comprehension, the recognition
of that form, star-reflected).

Of shrewd eyes you're allowed two;
they stare unaffected by the moon's single leer--
(you painted his brow running down to
enrapture us with your own regal slant, no?)

And one-sided face, the ignoble rock
had no hope for grin; he sneers
as you might with more space
between lips, less self-control
between ears--


He looks to you and you, out ahead,
but both too self-engaged, self-amazed
not to stare at your camera lens distortion
or the turn of his jaw in your well-strung chin,
or the retelling of his glory against far-planet's gleam--

the constant introspection of control.
For who shall pull the moon from his place?
Not worried as your seat,
and you watch him not at all,

but tilt into your posture
with the eagerness of the self-contained
(self-maintained, self-restored).
You do not swing in the presence of the stars,
but allow them to augment the sky behind you—


much like the moon (that I swear
you carved in self-aggrandizement,
self-portrait), who does seem
more willing to speak, but less able
and you there-- capable and silent,

but for your stance--
the pull others lose through charade,
but in your shrewd eyes—

the steady sheen of the
self-preserved, self-esteemed, a man of his own hand, unperturbed
by the heights to which he's striven,
unabashed by how easily he sits in the heavens.