Even if you were not born yet
the matter from which you were made
is in this picture
and I cannot decide if this means
that nothing really matters or that
everything matters.
Sunday morning silence.
Self-imposed solitude
contemplating an unaccompanied cosmonaut.
Left in lunar orbit
to keep the systems running
while Armstrong and Aldrin are Moon-bound, Glory-bound
Collins loses all communication with the Earth
and takes a snapshot.
No earthly loneliness could match such isolation
and yet
sometimes I feel like the sole survivor of a mission that failed
and I never even got the chance to walk on the Moon.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 