I don’t know the science
behind why memories
of the moon are vague
from the ‘70’s
but I know
we spend an awful lot of time
dissecting every crevice now
and though I’m drawn to facts,
I don’t like reality standing alone.

You may be wondering
in what artistic scene
I have placed myself in
at the moment of this writing.
I’m trying to staunch the bleeding
from a cuticle gone awry.
I’m waiting for tea to brew,
which is its own poetry.
Having just finished
half of a loaf of banana bread,
along with watching the last episodes
of a good detective show,
I am binging alone,
which is what leads to staring at the moon,
counting craters.