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Two Poems by Lesley Burt
The Moon's not Just a Dirty Rock
We hurtle into a long tunnel:
windows reveal nothing beyond
reflections: people, red upholstery,
and windows reflecting the reflected.
In a magazine left on the table
among coffee rings, NASA reports
a rocket: to launch a moon crew,
using a single five-segment booster.
Astronauts will build lunar outposts,
pave the way for journeys to Mars;
its south pole will provide water, ice
and abundant sunlight for power.
The steward sways along the aisle
rattling refreshments on a trolley;
passengers drink, read, doze; trust
steel lines, solid earth, unseen driver.
We shoot out of blackness – where
blocks of flats loom higher than
street lamps and trees’ winter skeletons –
into the light of a yellow moon.