the misted moon



i have seen a misted moon  
hanging like an opal  
over elegant pines 
(black-shadow ballroom dancers); 
a sliver like the finest sickle earring  
clouded by dew  
stretched diaphanous as if a cotton ball 
as if in a light blue portrait  
of a fantasy countryside at night  
unicorns chasing the moon, impossibly  
beautiful and fantastic.  

behind glass  
(on the shelf of a carnival booth)
sits a twenty-five cent, four-inch reproduction  
by an emaciated artist who paints
ten fantasy scenes an hour while  
wrapped in his brown blanket  
near a cracked window, over a radiator;  
he wishes he painted naked women instead.  

once it shattered  
with a perfectly centered dart  
a clear ptink 
it fell like a mayfly  
off the shelf  
leaving the oiled swimsuit females  
off-road trucks and  
polished, neon slot machines.

have i seen a misted moon at night?  

it is often surrounded by flashing lights,  
hawking gamblers, and whirling rides  

as it arcs through space on the heavenly spokes of a ferris wheel.  



     --jennifer crystal chien