I broke the moon today. The light seeped out from the craters and cracks, and moved like fog. The light settled over the dips between mountaintops. And vanished.
The chunks of moon don’t glow anymore. Boring boulders now lay at my feet. I shall use them as stepping stones to cross the deadly green to the War Memorial: a circle of stone, engraved with names of bloodied, broken bodies decayed somewhere in France, Vietnam, Korea. There’s no moon over Paris now. No moon over Seoul.
And in place of it is a black eye socket in the sky.