Now and then the moon decides
(with due attention to the tides)
to have a bit of sport with those
realists among us who suppose
themselves immune to influence
by lifeless sintered basalt spheres
whose blue, reflected radiance
has borne our booted engineers.
How else do we explain
the beady-eyed empiricist
out walking in the freezing rain
to greet her in her veil of mist,
imploring Luna with the same
endlessly repeated name,
his love, his soul’s one desire,
his only answer frozen fire?
Luna’s cruel; she is just;
the one face she poses true,
so we, in cracked and cratered dust,
may limn ourselves.