The Moon Is Fake and So Am I

We roost in special circles of nostalgia and our favorite ice creams.
We wear cloaks of visibility.
We acquire shell companies in our sleep,
and lay off all the workers when we wake.
Twilight peaks in around the branches, like a pervert.
There’s a 404 error where the moon should be.

I have hammer toes because I grew faster than my folks could buy shoes.
My body exploded the economics. I am a Marxist by nature.
I only sort of understand what this means,
and I’m not going to look it up. The truth seeks me,
not vice versa. Is this arrogance? I am arrogant.
And my feet still hurt.

Without the moon, where else
would we store impossibilities?

Animals don’t understand the ways in which
they are better than us. Their lives are rote paths
of expertise, and there’s a nobility to that, I’m almost sure.

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