I once saw a piece of moon in a box.
The pocked face hardly rocked –
it leant perchance to mock
the humans, brave as gods,
in filthy diesel machines,
filthy carbon-spitting machines,
as soft as hard dreams,
pirouetting down with ease.
And this chunk of rock,
squat, benign in box,
was like a postcard from heaven,
‘wish you were here’ at the bottom –
but no name.