On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site

So it’s the fucking moon. Big deal. As ifyou haven’t seen it before, hanging in the skylike 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 meaningfrom your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribeit a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say

in your affairs. It’s separated from your lifeby 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 gyroscopeknocking 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 closerand sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dovethat will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.