From bec7c936d59e331500c8350b92e33f2b5c5eb0e0 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Tue, 10 Mar 2015 23:17:06 -0700 Subject: Move dedication to before epigraph --- apollo11.html | 39 +++++++++++++++++++-------------------- 1 file changed, 19 insertions(+), 20 deletions(-) (limited to 'apollo11.html') diff --git a/apollo11.html b/apollo11.html index 14e2956..916dd98 100644 --- a/apollo11.html +++ b/apollo11.html @@ -1,5 +1,6 @@ - + + @@ -23,26 +24,24 @@ + +
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On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site

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On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site

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So it’s the fucking moon. Big deal. As if
you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky
like a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall,

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a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with hearts)
tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.
Don’t stare at it like it means anything.

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Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning
from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe
it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say

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in your affairs. It’s separated from your life
by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,
the same distance you stepped away from time that night

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you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope
knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,
had a nervous breakdown and started following you

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everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.
You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer
and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove
that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.

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So it’s the fucking moon. Big deal. As if
you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky
like a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall,

+

a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with hearts)
tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.
Don’t stare at it like it means anything.

+

Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning
from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe
it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say

+

in your affairs. It’s separated from your life
by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,
the same distance you stepped away from time that night

+

you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope
knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,
had a nervous breakdown and started following you

+

everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.
You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer
and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove
that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.

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