11:15 In Stockton

The moon has turned butter.
Wonder how it looks on the pacific?
Not from shore looking out
Or out looking in
But from nowhere
Smack dab so
Where nothing exists
Outside of itself
The free white
Dancing and shimmering
Over the swish of steady passage
Is that peace?
Or death?
Are they the same?
Which one
Claims the other?
Lawfully?
Is the moon witness?
Or suspect?
Or do we riddle our peace away
In worthless wonderings?
I wonder