Low Earth Orbit

Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control panels;
television screens and radios.
Barren walls, a sympathetic surface for lunar reflection,
pockmarked with meteor impacts.
Footprints left in a millennia of dust, detailed
descriptions of paths followed and not followed.
The air is sterile, vacuumed silent, and once orbit is reached
frost forms on windowsills, evidence of extreme cold or
lack of heat.

I wait for cracks to creep along the windows, for
them to shatter and let the void that lurks outside fill
the inside, my home or my body or maybe just
nameless space.

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.