I don't want to live on the moon. show me no travelogues and sell me no helmets. this is only a stopping point, a solution in search of a precipitate. I go on, beyond the moon, beyond the red dust of Mars, the asteroids and the lost history of a planet that was, beyond the giants and beyond the rings, out where there are no planets, only the shriveled heart of ice and the underworld so I cross Styx's starstuff river to curl around that frozen stone and thaw myself.
And that will conclude National Poetry Writing Month. Another year down!