O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon
Oh, I cannot swear that I do not love you
as the sun lies sick in bed, the moon is like
that cowlick, pressed against your forehead rests
a crescent, a question mark, an end stop.
No, more a waymark between throat and breasts
that sun must swell from crescents to discs,
round you gently as her passing phases call
moonshine until you’re breathless in silhouette,
in my darkness slumber and hapless to forget.
Oh, I cannot lie here and say you are not Juliet,
as the sun sends her diadem, in corona flames,
casts mirrors that shimmer with what you will attain,
scatter halos to crown moon’s darkling dove
and her shadows eclipsing such swollen love.
As your fruit must fill to fall on meadows strewn,
so shall the sun give way, with sickness swoon
under my light loving of this inconstant moon.
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