There are no stores
on the moon. Only the dark
centers of the lunar maria.

Missing you isn’t so bad.
Thinking about you makes me happy,
the astronaut read from
a crumpled postcard tucked
into his suit.

Early scientists bet their wives
these craters held seas.

An impossible woman
stood on her porch
in Texas.

A dark speck
absorbed the pour
of refrigerator light
from the moon.

Like a fly heavy
with cold, battening
down the latches
on the sheep pens.