who put the boom
in the rocket’s
red glare?

a race for the stars
could end
here; in a pile
of junk
abandoned in sand,
washed twice per
year by a rolling
tide of ice

the stalk of a camera eye
rises above
the dunes to take
a selfie in the sun
just to
prove it’s there

emptiness and folly
sent back home
to the lubbers left
behind, their feet
in the mud, heads
in the air

what air,
sweet lungfuls of
there you go
again
and here
we
are