Platonic Fridge

You get so wise

talking to the plant

about the grilled cheese sandwich

you are making

in the middle of the night

all about guilt.

Cheese.

You think your thoughts

are mostly stolen

animal products too.

The moon in the window

is also a thief.

All light feels stolen,

if light is property

which seems a sacred idea

about shoplifting

the divine.

The moon in the night

like a yearbook in your mind

quietly assaults you.

You turn the sandwich

as a lover turns

a lover in a drawing

you can’t stop tasting

before you actually taste

yourself forbidding yourself.

Before you are the moon,

its shoddy accounting

and what it did with light

for billions of years

that it can’t explain

or won’t in this court

because it doesn’t even understand

it is a dark body

with accountability

to other darkness.