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The Moon is on fire.
She's melted into a liquid mass
bubbling static in the universe,
until a hand stretches out
and squeezes her juice into
his cup. Then takes a sip.
He pours out the remainders down
the drain, for it's soured.
I found the rest of that juice,
settled over a baseball field
near my house. So I collected it all
in jars and stored it in my fridge.
Anyone can animate the day,
but only I, the night.

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