Lady Sisyphus    

Some night when no one's looking
I'll reel back and taking my time
to get a good one, I'll spit on the rock.
Just watch! Winking at me with mica
eyes about the falling sparrow,
its preening pride, how it catches
itself in windows and sees clouds
boiling and sexy highways.
What a laugh. Furthermore
like a marble in a cookie tin
the notion has started rolling
in my head of putting the rock down,
seeing how it likes drowning
in obedience. The press and tug.
Plus, I'm sick of the moon.
Sad steps, sad steps.
Get a load of her! One shrug
and I'll eclipse her, bald eye
big as Africa. I'm not scared.
Her lion and loris are blank.
Zinc trees. When the chalk peacock
opens its tail, no quills clatter.
And alabaster rainbow trout
sniffing white smells? Ditto.
White rivers, white anglers stepping
around glacier trash? Not even.
Since that would be sensation
and, no worries, she's the moon!
Nothing to taste or touch.
I can stare at her all night
and she can't hurt me.