The clouds beneath the moon tonight are spread so wide in such a show of pastels,
it’s as if they’re suspended from the moon itself and the whole sky is nothing less 
than a supernaturally radiant field of energy and life. But that isn’t true, yes, I know,

for hasn’t science been telling us so? Forget the simple fact of the clouds—
haven't we exposed the intimate details surrounding our satellite’s orbit and mass, 
and watched as our heroes probed it for days and returned with only rocks and dust?

       Then how can it be, that the moon is so naked and unashamed? 
       It’s like a woman’s wet lips bursting with starlight...

Oh stop telling me I’ve had too much wine! Better for one to be stumbling drunk 
than stumbling over small superstitions, obsolete gods, and the spectral flow 
of these seductive spirits! There's nothing here but Causes and Effects.

So how can I explain that she is just as deliciously mysterious to me now
as she must've been, hundreds of centuries ago, to a world of simple primitives 
who couldn't know the spoiler waiting to be found on her sexless surface?

       What was I saying before, about the clouds… And suppose 
       they knew the truth all along? Would that have made any difference? 

Suppose a chance discovery reveals that they were light years ahead of us 
in stripping the moon of its illusive gown with everything they needed to classify 
the ‘lifeless satellite’—telescopes, laboratories, launch pads, rockets—

       and yet buried beneath the ruins of a sprawling suburb, a skeleton 
       still clings to an empty jug, its eye sockets worshiping the radiant night?