My Expectations Bring In The Tide

When I grow up I want to be the moon:
object of desire, mystery, subject of too
many poems. I'd show you my dark side
and you would be amazed. Nothing to hide,
I'd gaze into oceans, shake my cratered
head to bring the tide to bed later
than ever before. My celestial mantel
grazing stardust, disbursed like an ant hill.

Lovers would promise me literally and figuratively,
my fault line turned up, knowingly,
sparing their soft red hearts the trouble
of finding an unlikely dream impossible.