We are planets. Some endure. Others melt, or spin off course, like tops. I'm one of those. This poem is my brand new abstract moon, a satellite whose strange attraction causes moods to rise and fall like waves, abstract tides.† The truth is, by the wooden wharves, even fishermen are gods. Inside each plastic bucket, offerings to the moon. Each hook's a hope or prayer; every cast an arm around the shoulder of a tearful stranger. I'm one of those. Lightning is a kind of poem, a song sung by clouds as they rub together. I'm one of those. Shoes on cobbles, words on the wind. Ask somebody if they'd mind walking slowly. Who knows, they might just say goodbye. We're abstracts in each other's eye. That's okay. You'll find a flower in the smog; I can already hear little white trees. Hands hold onto us. You're the kind of person who sees a single moon. I'm one of those too.