The night air grew as the grain silos stirred.
The florescent headlights spotlighted the dance
of dust. I watched the silt rise
and burst into stars, as you, sweet luna,
looked down silently from above.

Remember the heated hood of my Nissan?
I sat, scribbling verse in pollen, while music mingled
from each passing car. I can still taste
communal moonshine against the stale,
cardboard flavor of The Beast.

My mind pressed against the saturated hues
of grown greens, my every vein a siphon. I sparked my joint
and raised my head—propping it
on bug-spattered glass. I waited
for noses to ascend
towards you, trying to trace
the crude aroma that strolled around
John Deere caps and camouflaged Carhartt jackets.

In your light illuminating—
I watched and listened for hunting calls
against hippies, the watch yourself and where you step.
I heard those challenging words
and ducked as truck tires spun, flinging
dirt in all directions but home.

  I want to go home. I want to leave
this memory and memorize your face,
sweet luna. You are so damn dynamic,
always changing, always contorting your body
to fit each covering cloud.

How can you, sweet luna, be lonely
when each star calls your name
through their burning light, their sheen,
their radiant luster—
the glow that reflects the memories of a scared boy.