what crazy does,  it does
with fat toes and a small voice
like a chickadee on a cold morning

the moon forgets, of course,
because the morning comes
and the last sliver of the old
demented lunatic picks the sky
like a scab

when the sun pretends to warm
the hopeless gray — crazy whispers
dammit, please
go away

the moon remembers, perhaps,
later, because the noon is bright
and the first sliver of youths
wild mooning shocks the sky
like a bad decision

what crazy does, it does
without me and my skinny feet
like a chickadee ruffling its wings