I'll close with this poem that's a little bit longer.
It's also in two parts.
It was written in a response to one of the news about travel
to outer space.
And not just travel to, but efforts to move to outer space.
To live on Mars, live on the moon.
And this poem is written from the point
of view of those I imagine already there,
asking of us what it is that we are doing.
"The Disclosure of the Moon by its Sentries."
One.
"Those of you on the Earth, a blue and green wash
of your collective breaths.
Why is it that you appeal to something or someone above you?
Are we not your equal and your companion?
Often we ask ourselves, why do we bury your curiosities,
your poetry launched toward the heavens
as so many manned and empty ships moored, unmoored,
and abandoned?
Are they not trophies that are better buried
or better yet unsent?
How are we to bury your fear, which rockets towards us even
as it backfires?
We're not your gods nor your watchdogs.
Can't you tell?
We're simply dreaming as you dream.
Awakened every time you land on us
with a violence that reverberates forever
as poor rocks.
How do you feel when you don't bathe
in our light for a few hours of an evening on Earth
with your arm around your date?
Is the full moon, on clear mornings, a lost ring
filled with your expectations?
While you appear not to understand our gaze upon you,
which is merely a brush with experience,
how do you think it feels to be exposed by mighty telescopes,
as if you're a pervert at a keyhole?
By a lake of lazy multiplying algae,
or an ocean edged with a hard, deteriorating ribbon of coral,
you gaze with a longing out of all proportion
to our light indifferent touch.
Is it moonlessness in particular that you ambush?
Because from emptiness, you seem to squeeze the greatest
meaning.
Stranger, we only ask because we're loyal and hospitable.
What do you crave first when you arrive?
Is it taste?
So, will you taste your honeydew now?"
Two.
"Does spring or summer feel early?
Is that why you pool your feelings in ice
and why you store your ideas in a suit?
Has a memory returned to you?
Is that from childhood or invented?
We miss the beehives of love, too few to perish.
Was that too few or too true?
You act side of sorts.
Is your restlessness your trust issue?
For our part, we'd rather not have to move again.
Will you apply your considerable experience
of language and things to us?
Please don't make too much of our darkness.
Do the purples and reds of nature
console, or do thoughts of hyacinths and bluebells
confuse you?
Do lilacs prove you had a soul?
Cross the Great Basalt slowly.
There is no trading for other questions.
Do you grasp how the list got cut off after worm,
rose, turtle, and leaf, and that we have nothing
to do with it without a care in the world?
Can you accept that, without time, you're
really the only pilgrim here?
Space trash forever.
Where does that leave you?
Dressed, undressed, ready or not.
Do you regard your recent shift as a newly discovered idea?
Did you notice any monsters?
No need to answer.
With knives in their throats.
Is your guilt or innocence a big concern?
This is not a trade for sex or request for confession.
No blade is involved at all.
Are you making your own inquiry, because absent a body,
you have to ask yourself, who's there?
If the last thing there is the first here,
will spirit be enough?
Do you know the future without you does not hurt?
The knife is rubber.
Are you prepared to guard nothing rather than something?"
Thank you.