Spoons for Loons, we stir the moonlight silver,
clink two hollow galaxies, let midnight tremble.
Your iris is a lake where odd ducks pray—
I launch a teaspoon ripple to read the rings of yesterday.
We sip the dark like soup, blow cool across the craters,
sugar stars fall slow, dissolve in liquid equators.
Call it madness, call it tune—
only loons know the music of spoons.
Dawn will wash our dishes, but the echo keeps on clinking,
a circling note of metal, an unanswered question winking.