Man on the Moon

When I go to the moon, it’s alone.
Pale oceans, all white rocks, alone.

When I go to the moon I fly there,
my apartment the vessel,
one hallway like the link between
command modules.

When I go to the moon it’s cold.
When I go to the moon I’m not sleeping.

Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control pannels;
television screens and radios.
Color evaporates,
pin-prick stars shine through the dark curtain.

When I go to the moon it doesn’t take long.
When I go to the moon it’s quiet.

When I go to the moon it’s my apartment,
exposed lonesome walls,
lights like ceiling suns suspended.
Vaccumed silent.