Cold Green
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.
Copyright © 2004–2017 Memorious