Pizza moon

Looks like it’s moontime again
As she comes in behind clouds.
In windows noisy with scooters
And milkmen clinking in cans.

A drooping anaemic sickle cell
In her decline,she waits there
For her diurnal cousin in trees.

We recall her a big round thing
We had left behind in the sea.
Now she is a half eaten pizza,
A stale crumb from old poems.

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