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---
title: On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site
genre: verse
project:
title: Elegies for alternate selves
css: elegies
order: 5
next:
title: Ars poetica
link: arspoetica
prev:
title: And
link: and
...
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.
[fucking moon]: deathstrumpet.html
[rotten meat]: roughgloves.html
[hearts]: proverbs.html
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