The Insomniac at the Full Moon

The moon can go screw,
always poking through
the blinds, shifting
its face nightly, hiding

a smirk in its waning
shape, so full of
its crescent self,
crepuscular shell

of day demanding
center-stage and me
tucked-in tight, hard-pressed
by the weight

of its light.
Orion can bite me, arrogant
prick, sickening in his

sidereal reeling
doesn’t deter him
from his fruitless trek,

in pursuit of lunar
shadows that shape
my longest nights. Fuck
that tow truck backing

into place, sirens on
the parkway, freight trains
on the breeze. Sheep
need counting and one’s still

missing, slipped away
and bleating, out
of reach and bleating
for day to break.


By Brian Simoneau