The Star Beast Ball

More about The Star Beast Ball

The moon checked its coat at a hole in the wall,
And limped down the stairs to the Star Beast Ball.
She wore seven rings from a pawnshop sun;
He had teeth like a zipper that wouldn’t quite run.

The orchestra tuned to a busted machine.
A moth swept the floor where the daylight had been.
She offered a claw. He offered a bow.
Neither could dance, but they started somehow.

Oh, turn me around till the windows go blue,
There’s a train full of morning coming through.
Let the old stars fall where the old stars fall—
Keep your hand in mine at the Star Beast Ball.

There were sailors from planets that nobody charts,
With brass diving helmets and secondhand hearts.
One slept by the furnace, one wept in his beer,
One bought a return ticket every year.

Her feathers were copper. His mane was white.
They caught on the chandelier twice that night.
She laughed, and he stood on a chair to get free.
The drummer kept going. The clock struck three.

By five all the candles were guttering low.
The coat-check moon said, “You’ll have to go.”
They walked to the stop in the watery dawn,
With a piece of the ballroom caught on his horn.

She picked it off gently—a gilt plaster star—
And tucked it inside the old coat that he wore.
Then the bus opened up with a wheeze and a crawl,
And carried them home from the Star Beast Ball.