Flashpoint

1         The moon has a larder         and a kitchen,         wears a nightcap         as Father in the Night Before Christmas.         2         The moon hoards pistachios,         marzipan         commands the shadows         is mustachioed         sleeps in a sloop         (at least when I look)         like the boat         owl and pussycat         took to sea.         3         And on country nights         in high summer         fishing nets seem drawn         about his face,         reveal ribbons of light,         eerie panhandlers grubbing quarters;         a sinister sailor with a sack         on a pitch black wharf.         4         Between clouds,         leafy barques         the hinge reflected on the         thick, ashen door         the moon will pirate         your senses         set them adrift         amidst twilight islands         in the mind's Outer Hebrides         where mystery is king         and the hem of robe you kiss         is an envelope pilfered.