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For The Space-Men



For The Space-Men

She hears the sighing of a single car

Speeding on a a far-off freeway,

Like the dying whisper of a distant rocket

Or the sussurus of a shooting-star.

Sheet-lighting, without a sound –

A flickering of metal foil, without reverberation –

White-hot above the roof-tops,

Above the terra-cotta and the slates, the stillness freezing on the ground.

In white, two men; in dazzling white and gold,

With giant leaps move liquidly on shoals of dried-up seas,

Baked in the Sun like a million mirrors,

They glance at craters filled with other-worldy dust

… while one spins, slowly, behind the Moon.

Two hundred and forty-thousand miles apart,

On Earth (back home), agog, white-knuckled wives

Keep open house and pour out beer and hand out candy,

Observe contractual obligations of the heart.

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