Hermitage on the Moon

Contrails in the sky tonight

Spell out something bleak,

Rockets racing towards an explosion,

Trick props built to break

On sudden impact, spontaneous combustion

As if it just couldn’t wait,

All the fruit we couldn’t taste

In our cupped and frozen hands

With the seeds in our wobbling teeth,

All the nectar spoiling underneath.

 

In the wild silver monsoons

On the insomniac moon,

The craters cradle newborn seas

Of molten gold,

Quiet misplaced residents buried

Under every astral fold,

And I have to wonder if there’s room

For an arbor and a hedgerow,

A hermitage and me.

 

Digging a ditch in the damned lands

Tonight, a sedate grave for classic cars

On their hurried way home from the bars.

We never close our revolving doors,

Still hiding a live round

And a deepening hole in the frozen ground,

A realization, a fear, a sudden impulse.

We’re lost, no one’s looking,

There’s no one around.

It’s up to us to be found.