I was told by someone years ago not to write about the moon. That it was overused. A cliché. That was before I started writing poetry. But now, how can I resist? By avoiding the usual metaphors. By not having the rays of moonlight land on rippling waves at midnight. By never having the moon accompany star-struck lovers along a beach walk. By refusing to call the moon an orb, or to watch it dip into the bay. And to never look at it through naked eyes. Use only high-powered telescopes to bring it close, into my living room, my head, my point of view. I see what others never will. It is not green cheese. They have gouda and edam and gruyere. Spread out on burgundy picnic blankets. Sesame crackers and fresh baguettes. Empty and full bottles of Kathryn Kennedy 2012 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon. Corks strewn. Grapes. Red and white checkered napkins, soiled with what looks like yellow lipstick. And a telescope, pointed at earth. Watching me watch them.