Mare Marginus



Regarding the moon:

Beyond which dwell our hazy nightmares

transformed into demons from the pulpit.

Can a ball have an edge? Or an egg? Or

the shadow of a face as familiar as our own?

Lying on your stomach, peering over that

precipice to the bottomless void.

                                                                  Bottomless

void, there’s a thesis. One giant step. One giant

banana skin. Drip by impossible drip this sea

melts to the dusty edge, the chasm below drinks

until it finds its level. On that day the vacuum

and its converse will be half of each. We

will be you. You will be us. There be a lesson.