by Chris Farago.
Moon, you are different and indifferent;
I lay out my thesis before attempting to land
So as not to catch you unawares.
If I set foot on your alien fields,
Moon, would you give me so much as a tremor?
Could I shift your gravity?
I speak the way I do because it is
The only way I know how.
I am uncertain; I am kind.
That I would mar your surface
Wounds me to no end, but I fear
It is the only way I know to get through to you, Moon;
These words are lost to you
Like a lightning bug in the bright summer sky.
I try to find a language for us
That will be our language, Moon.
I have practiced my waning for years:
Soon I will know how to disappear.