Fishing on the Moon: A Meditation

I tilt my head to square my helmet’s aperture;
and watch my line reeling through the dust,
the day’s black sky, and the near-felt sun

light; breathing on the sea-side of the moon,
I am the world, and the only sound
huddles within my inch of atmosphere.

Ah. . . . . . . . . . . .

fishing on the moon

is thrilling. The only cell -- moving
in an ocean, egotistical and esoteric,
incomprehensible and incomparable to
the (much biggest) mindless else
which is as measurably identical
without or with it -- has heavy breath.

I feel my gloves move and watch the line
skidding through dust, eons undisrupted,
now disrupted in new and equal still;
the hook locks at the top of my pole
untouchable; and I smile (hearing my cheeks fold).
Nothing’s ever caught on the moon anyhow.

I cast again (feeling the my back’s muscles,
my arms and pole out of vision, breathing
the only sound in my, only atmosphere)
into the sea of tranquility and the hook -- baitless,
unseen but indicated by the pole (now in vision,
bending) and the string, stretching….into the sky --

rises and falls….slowly

into dust that

rises and falls….slowly.