CAMELOT FANTASIES

Starry eyed I peer too closely at the heavens
and am cut by the blade of the moon.
My blood rises like the gushing tide,
effacing me like footprints from the sand.
Blue-penciled and abridged too far,
flashing dead/alive dead/alive dead/alive
my cat's purring like Schrödinger's, playfully
headbutting my hand to scratch her behind her ears.
She rolls over to expose her belly.
She wins.

I rub her terraqueous, sublunar belly,
where I could hear the sloshing
of milk, as it slowly churns into more catness.
Unlike us, cats never lose their integrity.
My cat's name is Luna, a carefree creature of the night
whose eyes light up like twin moons upon the bay.
I'm like a coyote caught in her high beams,
howling like a officiant at the Sangre de Cristo
Mountains which howls back in liturgical response.
The desert night always feels holy.

I don't need quantum mechanics to tell me there are
paradoxes in this life.
Man is God and God is man
and both bleed red, and what we should say is better left unsaid.
It is a full moon tonight, the loonies are out in force, and
emergency rooms are filling faster than a creek in a gully washer.
I double lock my doors and windows,
and hold Luna closer than ever.
It is not fear I feel, but awe.