Mission to the Moon

Shattered in my mouth

There are splinters in these words

Thorns and roots and tangles

I have spoken

Spitting out my teeth

Into a little silver cup

I wake up cold

With eyes wide open

I remember climbing trees

Vanishing behind the branches

Cradled in the veil of make-believe

Or else I was shooting fish

In a shallow fish pond

As they glistened in the sun

It might be wrong

It might be childhood

Summer sheets

And dampened footfalls

Cotton clinging to my skin

Kite strings

And paper wings

Missions to the moon

It might be wrong

It might be wrong

It might be wrong

It might be childhood