The waning moon makes me feel vulnerable,
like watching a woman with a slice carved from her side.
The American moon’s transgender, did you know?
Changed from the German moon-god,
their sun-goddess’s spouse.
Our Mr. Sun’s flaming, all hot pink
and fuchsia scarves, free from science-based
constraints on how to shine.

What sense of entitlement lets me
dilly dally, skygazing,
lost in the diversity of myth,
dumb as a fetus
to procrastination’s many
evidence-based ills?