The man of a thousand faces
Sits down at the table
Eats a small lump of sugar

And smiles at the moon like he knows her

He begins his quiet ascension

Without anyone's steady instruction
To a place of no religion
He's found a path to her likeness


His words are quiet like stains are
On a tablecloth washed in a river

Stains that are trying to cover
For each other
Or at least blend in with the pattern


Good is better than perfect
Scrub till your fingers are bleeding

And I'm crying for things
I tell others to do without crying


He used to go to his favorite bookstores
And rip out his favorite pages
And stuff 'em into his breast pockets

The moon, to him, was a stranger

And now he sits down at a table

Without anyone's steady instruction
Begins his quiet ascension
To a place of no religion


He's found a path to her likeness
He eats a small lump of sugar

Smiles at the moon like he knows her