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I trace
Cross contours
Of the moon’s surface.

As it hangs
Crooked and framed
On the walls behind my eyes.

Which long since heaved shut;
Full with the heavy haze
Of those bumps
Smooth runs and divots
I drift cross.

And in those weightless moments

I thought not of flags nor markers
Frontiers new nor lands conquered,
But of the way my feet felt
Suspended just

That little while longer.