I am a blue moon, harvest moon, 
blushing red over this autumn night 
before turning my full round face 
toward that sleeping shepherd, 
tanned from Helios even beneath me 
(ministrations I can never give 
despite my current fire). 

Kissing Endymion, I almost know 
what it is to be that sweet, 
sweltering sun I never see but feel. 
Though the mortal be sleeping, 
his mouth is soft and pliant, 
and his lips part slightly 
so to let my silver skin in. 

The golden youth yields to me, 
stretches open arms across grass 
yet to be nibbled by his lambs. 
I feel him grow strong along 
my orb's light intensifying, 
and when he moans, 
“Selene, stay, 
don’t let me wake 
to face the day,” 
 
I transform to crescent horns, 
tumbling, touching the top 
of the firmament. My belly presses 
tighter groundside — oh Endymion, 
oasis-faced mortal who rivals Adonis.... 
 
But my brother comes; it is he 
who gets to greet my lover’s eyes 
and herd beside him, stimulating 
those steady legs and bold shoulders. 
 
Every dawn upon my death, I fade 
a little more, a little farther. 
For weeks I yearn, to be 
full and gilded again, to touch 
the living one night alone, to know 
what Helios enjoys eternally 
without a thought for me.