Go on Mr. Moon, big round cheese,
soaring over these maturing fields,
soft as the breeze that blows you along,
easing your beam onto me.
I am a free citizen of this land,
my long johns and string vest
steam, delicately fanned
on the pulley by the paraffin heater's
head fogging fumes
next to hung game, fermenting still.
Beaded moisture clings to window frames,
behind threadbare stained curtains.
Room suffused with ethereal glow.
Soon I'll be asleep, rythmically snoring
beneath clouds,that trap you in darkness.