My Poetry: That Old Low Moon

That Old Low Moon

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That old low, white gold
button moon, mottled
by the seas of our tranquillity,
sits as if holding up
the ink blue fabric of the night
from falling, suffocating
our evening's dreaming.
And like the red head's dress
I wonder what secrets hide
behind that fabric;
what would be, if
with twitching fingers I flicked
the golden button,
relieving soft cloth from stella,
then slipped it from the shoulders
of the universe and gazed upon
the infinite magic
of her celestial body.
Would the secrets of life
reveal themselves?
To I a humble servant
of Eros and life.