Here in my lunar skull a sea upon which sets a boat, some weather-synapse and a compass for idea. The hammered dome now fused was once all shifting plates and pliable. Now its hardened craters are pocked by all the asteroids and astronauts that have made landings there, nested and hatched upon the surface. Some sometimes make it back. Though the seas are vapor the boat still sails cold and nectar known, though what we know of as the stars are gone. The sails still luff and swell across the eye pits and toward the ear canal. What is the moon if not a thought full of cool green light? And what’s a thought but what pulls as wind the moon beyond the cloud.