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