Moon

I've learned a lot by looking at the moon
This winter, as it has moved across the
Sky, east to west, along its nightly course.
Though born and bred a child of the day,
The night has owned my company as well
As any other time. And looking up,
I see this ball of dust and rock, whose white
Face so brilliantly shines that the blackness
Becomes purpleness or grayness, not quite
The austere emptiness of black alone.
From up above, I've heard, the Earth itself,
Too, is quite beautiful in blue and white,
But that's another perspective: it seems
To me there's nothing but acknowledgement.

That there are real places on the moon, and

That people have been there is unreal, and 

That footsteps and flags are there right now, and

That if you had a spaceship you could go

And see that the craters are real places,

And see that the darkness is really there,

And see that it is warmer than you thought,

And see that your weight is not your weight.

Maybe I'll go there to see for myself.

Maybe I'll place my foot in the moon dust.

Maybe I'll tear down the American flag.

Maybe I'll see what Neil Armstrong saw

When he opened the hatch of The Eagle

And stepped giantly on the face of God.

But she wanders, each night, she wanders, 

As I sit on this porch of treated wood,

And type here, on this machine of lightning,

In quiet contemplation of her face --

Interrupted by blinking jet plane lights

That move across the sky in quietude,

A distant rumbling five miles above

Where passengers sit and read and sleep

And perhaps read these words when I hit

Post. And they, too, will know what I know,

As they observe a movie about Mark Zuckerberg,

On the screen that lights before their faces,

Or as they crane their necks to see the moon

That shines upon them in full gibbousness.