When I was young and dreamy,I longed to be a poet,not one with his armswrapped around the universeor on his knees before a goddess,not waving from Mount Parnassusnor wearing a cape like Lord Byron,rather just reporting on a dog or an orange.But one soft night in CaliforniaI walked outside during a party,lay down on the lawn,beneath a lively skyand after an interlude of nonstop gazing,I happened to swallow the moon,yes, I opened my mouth in aweand swallowed the full moon whole.And the moon dwelled within mewhen I returned to the lights of the party,where I was welcomed backwith understanding and hilarityand was recognized long into the nightas The Man Who Swallowed the Moon,he who had walked
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