On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site
@@ -48,12 +44,14 @@ -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.
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.