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<title>On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site</h1>
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<p>So it’s the <a href="deathstrumpet.html">fucking moon</a>. Big deal. As if<br />you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky<br />like a piece of <a href="roughgloves.html">rotten meat</a> nailed to the wall,</p>
<p>a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with <a href="proverbs.html">hearts</a>)<br />tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.<br />Don’t stare at it like it means anything.</p>
<p>Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning<br />from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe<br />it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say</p>
<p>in your affairs. It’s separated from your life<br />by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,<br />the same distance you stepped away from time that night</p>
<p>you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope<br />knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,<br />had a nervous breakdown and started following you</p>
<p>everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.<br />You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer<br />and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove<br />that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.</p>
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