I was the first of my tribe
to land on the surface of the moon

we flew along highways across
the expansive deserts of lava and stone

tiny-winged cosmic garbage
splattering on our front windscreen

such deserts are only seen
in documentary films

covered in verdant fog
wrapped in mystic shine

you could imagine it as unreal
think that such a reality could only be constructed

while you sit in a fake rocket
fire fueled

not rising from that place but
amazed and not feeling gravity

the occasional glimpses of houses
as if the quarter was flipping over

ingrown onto the pages of magazine
in which no one can rush

where time sloughs
the skin of clocks

and smokes volcanoes

I sit dressed in a protective suit of worry
around me knives fly
escaped from the bone sphere of a head

that someone shook to hard
breaking through the bone

not giving peace
slamming into the instruments
touching the red-lit buttons

looking back at me
like compass arrows
showing eternal north

it seems we’ll never reach our mark

won’t collect the requisite amount of rock
to counterbalance our remaining longing

instruments measuring the levels of salt
in the waters of stormy faces

we fly straight into the unknown
with all our realized bodies
with uncertain creations in the backpacks of our souls

above the whale and orca sculptures
the twitching holograms of birds
above ships rarely broadcast

onto screens of glittering water

believing we’ll plant a flag

throw off our helmets
throw off our packs --

this ragged suit of a body
and just once

inhale for real