it was written on a page
it was dying for its age
and nothing will be going again
starting off with a pen
and finishing with a typewriter
a story of old
whose themes are too bold
for the moment
and all of it paid
like debts to collectors
something i knew, by the way
still, i never saw moons

it began a long time ago
sifting out wonderings
of people i have known
straight and narrow;
a path, crooked
something out of nothing
where everything is
still i never saw moons