Erase the seventh moon and you will be rewarded with the madness of an open mouth. Take away the seventh white ball and you shall be granted a sugar cube for the sake of research. Wipe out the full seventh house in the sky and claim your only religion is the invisible one you swallow each time you breathe. Erase the moon after the sixth and you will be rewarded with the floor of composition where a black cat runs across the surface and you follow it across the universe, until you realize you haven’t left the room.

Erase the seventh moon from your secret notebooks and your desires will be noted as forever’s violin, the instrument traced on the craters visible from the eye instrument lodged in your head by a fleeing man who came by to see you quiver. Destroy the quarter slice of the fire before the eighth ball that falls to earth and you will surrender pink steam that floats down from the last explorer who came up with an answer for this.

Erase the seventh moon from train tracks that never went, the journey postponed by the dark city that wasn’t there. Evaporate the seventh flower and forget how it grew out of what you never had, what pushed you to reach above your head and pluck the moon away from its myth, its dangling light kissing the infection and the human right, bringing you familiar war greetings from those who survived their own acts of erasure.