I wrote this poem a few years ago in tribute to Neil Armstrong, on the occasion of his death.
You must be up there still,
Neil, sliding down
that flimsy ladder, bolted
to the lander’s spindly
legs—aluminum,
like a jungle gym—
and poised to mess your new,
white boots with billion-year-
old silver dust; scuff up
some sand on that tranquil shore;
waving too fast in your home-
movies, making faces
safely behind your mirrored
mask. Your laughter crackles
back to grown-ups in Houston.
Summer vacation will last
forever. Out of sight.
Tonight again, you’re splashing
at Buzz in the Mare Cognitum,
or bouncing after a ball
out of bounds. Man in the
Moon, gleaming like
an upturned smile. Hail
Columbia; Peter Pan;
Captain America; Nostalgia
Man. No, not man,
Mankind. Host of Daydreams,
you keep flying toward
that earthrise; fling yourself
at a horizon that falls away
as you approach, around
and around forever.
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