ArmstrongHow was that one small step,
that toe press to the unknown world,
with dust as soft as sleep beneath
your rigid sole?
How strange to be alone.
In your airless world you walked,
a bubble man. A diver surfacing
beyond the imagination of
coelacanths and arctic squid.
You gaped like a fish, perhaps,
astounded at the airless air.
Perhaps your lips were tight,
your nostrils flared, calm
and infused with wonder.
Perhaps your heart beat harder.
a launch pad your springboard,
a world of dust your new land.
I wonder if you wished to
slip your glove. To lie face flat
to your desolate ground, to sink
fingers in and grasp that silt.
To know that you were there
with a gardener's dusty hands.
A Whelk, PerhapsI shall draw myself further in,
safe in these whorls. No feelers
feeling. No fronds out-turned.
A whelk, perhaps. Invertebrate.
Safe in myself with my eyes closed,
head drawn in, curved to the
contours of this calcification.
No man is an island, entire of himself.
But I can eke out the neck of
this peninsula. I can huddle like rock,
my spine an archipelago, undiscovered.
I can stay like a soft thing, washed
by waves, moved by eternal currents,
but always held. Always safe
in Fibonacci's constant. Curved in,
and blind, and alive in my mind.