Now around you, voyager, the oil-greased joints
of planet-pumping hearts
into a space between dark, mirror images
telling but unable to speak.
His words are still in a voyage of nothing,
communicated across
both past and present
as a future distance,
mere pulse in the round hole of infinity
of which he cannot know the starting point or finish.
Neil, did you lie to us?
Did you conquer the planets from your sitting room?
