Alone in the cabin, waiting

for the Earth to rise, you could feel

solitude expanding, passing

through you (how curious

the body) like the queasing waves

of radiation stars greet us with.


I know you were not the most

alone since Adam, but more so—

you could remember someone

needing to touch your body.

You listened, unsure

how to respond, as Armstrong

and Aldrin walked the surface,

and still the small emptiness

we wish we could end

with words or experience.

Did your mind leap

to deer lining the road home

late at night, their heads tipping

up to see they do not need

to know you? I cannot find

how the light you shone

showed some meaningful curve

to aloneness for any of us

who have spent the day in bed,

the phone off, the light off,

the day off.   

I have heard my father

call my name from the hall,

tell me dinner is ready, and found

it was only a dream of him

alive that woke me. After the dream,

Michael, I had to get up.

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