Although he seems
to already know the answer,

the investigator asks
how the object up there can be

the moon when it’s spinning
like a Ferris wheel.

I shrug. He has short, fat fingers
like the stubs of melted candles.

He asks again would I lend
a pyromaniac a light.

I concentrate on ignoring the screams
coming through the wall.

Somewhere I learned
the heart is the size of a fist.

Howie Good