Is It Full-Blown Ruddy Moon? Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

Is it full-blown ruddy Moon
Rolling augustly nowhere?
It's hung ‘twixt horns of god Amun
Walking the welkin with an air.

In Andromedas of vague clouds
Now sawn piecemeal, now come apiece.
Look up and find its whereabouts:
It's over there on night's lease.

The Moon, a mix of lime and ochre,
Is bobbing on in chiseled grooves.
The Moon's like gibbous, buff-clad joker
For whom the circus thrill behooves.