Haines Eason The Moonbase

This is how I was loved. Plastic blocks
Dumped from a cardboard box,
Plastic men in heads, torsos
Legs and twisty hands. Finishing touch :
The landscape’s plastic base. Flat, gray,
Perfectly machined rows of dots where
To attach the pieces beside
The formed-smooth hump-hill.
A dune, touched with two craters to accent
My bedroom’s desolate scene.
Spread by boredom’s bomb
On the carpet, the moonbase is a long way
From completion. I remember not exactly
Thinking I wished dad was there.
There was something gone. There is no day
Where I forget a pinpricking oxygenlessness :
Sunday afternoons. It’s funny, the gravitas,
The weightlessness when what you want
Is there and will not come near. The sun
In space, on the moon, it must be that way,
All heat when it strikes you, but in the interval,
As its love crosses the pure blackness?
Everywhere out there is the blacker for the sear of
That cold nuclear love. I always dreamed
The sun’s plasma was a skin, a sky, and under it,
Fiery lives lived as inverse to my cold doom.
From the moon, the sun, if you could stare,
Should be white. Hot, yes, but hotter than,
And pure, all present, unfiltered.
Without rooms and clouds, when it is, it is,
And it must always be there.


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