In the room: a small moon

rounds itself around the soft 
and sudden pull of him.

Celestial bloom in the corner, 

little ooooh the mouth has to make
to deliver such a word as croon,
swoon, succumb.
 
He looks up.
and looks—mm. 
Marooned one,
welcome to his gravity.
 
A body like this is not supposed
to be with a moon. Is not supposed to be
held to the cratered thing and
scanned, sized, sleeved in dusk. 
 
He doen’t say come back
when your chaperone’s asleep.

What moon can say: I felt you
orbit me? Outside, the sky
goes plum and bruise and lunar.