Okay so I need to start somewhere, but my emotions are far to viscous a fluid to squeeze through poetry's thin nozzle. I dont know what this is. It is a start, is all, It's something. I took the attachment off my heart's extruder and just pulled the lever here. 

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You know, I hear they cancelled the eclipse. We're all out here sun-staring for lack of skyward splendor, impatient for the cliché constellations of the farther, less blinding stars of night. In a sort of verbal irony our sun has us starry eyed, we're going blind getting our moneys worth. But we took our break for this, and will be damned if forced to face eachother.  murmurs and old gummy judgements too stale to snap start the displaced fish flop out of slack jaws and chap bittered lips. "we heard the moon has burned away, be it comets, be it humans, or the angry light of day, the moon has burned away". Meaningless speculation on tidal waves and werewolves trickle out on to the asphalt, sizzling in their novelty. All the rocks old indescretions glorified in light of this awesome spontaneous vaporization.
I'm tight with the moon though, and I saw "showtime" written in the dust amidst vacuum deafness and astronaut footprints. I saw it all capital and proud and excitedly scratched the night before. the rugged little space-thing, holiday excitement vibrating crater deep over its big play, to show off the ring trick to her splendid face, his home planet. I woke up with a ringing in my ears and the underwater feeling, the sticky pressure of gravity thick in sinus. The axis had shifted, earths poles snagging and twisting her moons equatorial rails, tying knots in a familiar path. It was simply pushed out of sight.
 Soon our vision will be seared from our impossible frames, nobody will see the moon again, blind to it having fell out of an angry orbit. There will forever be stories of the day the moon burned up, but didnt.