The Moon is all poetry
Or it was, prior to being ransacked
By our ascent.

Perhaps with some excavation
Important people will find the new Moon
In stanzas desperate to communicate
With someone far away and other than themselves.

The authors don’t know the actual Moon is there, of course
The only satellite they see is the one with men in it
Men with hairy backs and
Abnormally large genitals
And women with non-threatening plumage
who leak scent trails and yowl
For distant potential mates.

They read the instructions, but they are doing it all wrong.

On the Moon you need not be concerned.
The dusty gunpowder sticks to anything
The ionizing radiation sterilizes everything
The gonads of men are disassembled
Estrogen is decoupled from life
We shrivel to nothingness in the frozen glare.

Or this version, anyway.
You know, the one where language
Is invented and the beings all
Become self-aware and plan to write poems someday.

They stumble out of their burrows on the Moon
And kick the clumps of regolith
Angry with the Earth for being so close
But so different from the way it looked in the picture.