For Me, the Moon

America-soared-when-the-Eagle-landed

For Me, the Moon

always floats in black
and white,
speaks with the voice

of Walter Cronkite. No
gold LEM
engine skirt, no garish

flag in waves of red
and blue
stuck in lunar

dirt. Armstrong,
Aldrin,
Collins, and Control

windtalk lift, guidance,
gimbal,
pitch, and roll.

FLIGHT fires the sacred
Loop—BOOSTER
Go. RETRO Go. FIDO

Go. GUIDANCE Go. And
the loneliest
men ever to be un-

earthed cut the summer
sky like
a blade on top

of the tallest, most
potent
machine ever made.

All the Teaming Herds

fish_bream_longear_sunfish

All the Teaming Herds

My grandfather, Russell Jackson
Smith turned 133 this year—

he’s dead, of course, but still
so young by cosmic standards.

For example, the farther we look
into the universe we find

light so old it makes us shiver
with the cold thrill of space,

much like Hubble felt in 1922
on top of Mount Wilson

observing the pulse of Andromeda’s
Cepheid Variables, proving

what seemed nebulous was not
and no part of our own

Milky Way. The world is big,
and bigger still when we leave,

as my grandfather did
April 1st of ’48, standing

by the washed-out bridge
over Lost Creek, wondering

about his fields and crops,
remarking how the bream

were teaming in bright-scaled
herds through the opaque

waters when the vessel burst
in his head like a failing star.