I stepped out the front door to look at the moon to my right. I look to the left, north, as if - habit - traffic. The moon … whatever.
My Iranian neighbor was out, spritzing his car. And north beyond him, the Chinese neighbor fellow was out also spritzing or not.
And me, in my Dalai Lama, white knight shirt, turned immediately back indoors.
I have no wish for incidental conversation. And there's this poem to compose. No time to wax, or wane, or waste.
We can Google the moon if we need to. Fuck it.
June 1, 2023