our arms brushing
like many summer nights
on the same white picketed porch.
He points out how the moon's
brightness matches December's
briskness. I turn slightly away
to view
and I see him
and the man of craters mirroring
each other. I wonder
if he now sees himself
like I do:
illusive, yet so fucking real
for those who went through
space and stars
to land there.
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