Stop drooling at the moon,
Flat Astronaut. Stop. The
ash on the surface/ dust
unsettles as you watch
TV. You want to touch
the moon, to walk the Sea

of Tranquility, sea
of ash. Dead moon, dark moon,
moon of no dream. Can’t touch
your myth. Can’t yet see the
imagined. You must watch
Neil Armstrong kick moon dust.

Not you. You touch beach dust
pulverized by the sea
tides. Synchronize your watch,
your blood spins with the moon
orbit, your brain feels the
moon drag, bloody rag, touch

the television. Touch
the moon. Wipe off the dust
coating the men of the
Apollo launch. Fine sea
foam tugs at your feet. Moon
sands, grey sands, fade. Watch

television, yes, watch
the fast fading screen, touch
the snow fuzz crusted moon.
Flat Astronaut, spank dust
off the set. Feel no sea
undulate inside the

entertainment hutch. The
moon transmitted you watch
is light waves on the sea,
the sun reflected. Touch
beach, water, break the dust.
Know the sun lights the moon.