Whose hands are on the moon?

Flying figures in the sky
Racing across the moon
Shining seraphims
Guarding the palace
That once I built from
the cuticles in my finger nails
But now what can these hands do?

If our nails grow with the moon
While we sleep
Even while we die
Our skin reflects the sun
It is shadows and dust
Of interstellar lust
Sun people saving their skins
Everyday
Hanging them out on the washing line
In mutual habitual action
That the Sun dictates
Like our father

The flesh is warmed then it drops
It is blown in the wind
Our eyes are the rain and the oceans
And the weather of emotions
That fill with salty tears
That no matter how many fall
They still dry
In the end
All the while the moon is
Pulling our finger nails out
Into the evening sky