Lunar Dream

Dreamt at night to be—to have been—

one of the ten men to walk the lunar surface:

fine bright white dust under boot heel,

unfiltered sun hotly bright but frozen,

gazing through gold a micron thick

at a sea of flat tranquility, hostile with

indifference. Beyond it rises the familiar blue,

bobbing in black suffocation, the only place

in a trillion miles, where I can breathe.

To be—to have been—one of

the six men you said have touched you, with

your athletic fluidity of gesture, with the tiny

translucent hairs above your navel,

a surface as far to me as the white bed sheet

against which your blue eyes fluttered open,

on a morning as far as the earth is to me now.

--Noah Aleshire, a version of Lunar Dream