Moon Day is your day 
To vacuum and sweep and mop
While I mope at my writing desk
Desk writing is definitely my mope
My modus operandi for another week
You say scram, out of my way, out
Of this sterile wreck tangle of the leaf 
Litter of language where literature
Is left behind, out to the squiggly mess
Of what nature provides for free
So I go through air’s open door 
Ratchet into summer’s overgrowth
To sit write stand
In the roots of an old sycamore
Whose single trunk branches
At eye level
Into an equal trinty of tree
I crane my head to witness
Its holy fingers reaching
Up to the un-answering sky
Then the wind stills itself
I look down to see a mosquito
On the cuff of my pants, I think
Of the small bite you left on the nape
Of my neck and of the body parts life flings
In various directions for various reasons.
Perhaps when my molecules
Ascend to earth’s dome this sycamore
Will stick its nose up into the ether to catch
My scent