Growing up, I remembered my future and forgot the brightest filament of my past.
I grew, leaves unfurling, towards blackness. Even the leggy machines drew the night
behind themselves like a cloak slipping over the egg of moon, and drew it tightly,
circumscribing the light offering the promise, but not the why, of this life, in the last
embers of men pelting the atmosphere. See the fine ash. I, among the rounded cast
of presences who weren’t quite there, ghost the periphery of my own internal sight,
and though I knew about the day of walking with you, side by side, in Earthly light,
without the sensate, the memory germinated strangely. Feeling starts. It doesn’t last.
The lunar rock I loved was barren, barren of speech and barren of touch
but it shone in its barrenness, and this seemed to me like honesty. It shone,
but then, I could embrace a fuel pump, delight in its chill invading my skin
like ink in wet paper, and I could hear the blasted wail of that being as much
as I could mirror another’s once-blank blinking. All of them, but he was the one
who, in giving me a small knot of sadness, gave me what it meant to have been.