At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine.

I want the multivalence of moons: moons for the passing of time, moons for the female body, moons for longing. The moon as cipher for that city in an e. e. cummings poem where ‘everyone’s / in love and flowers pick themselves’. Moons for tides, in every sense.

she’s staring up at the moon, smiling serenely at it like the moon is her new best friend, it’s telling her the most gorgeous things in the world,