–artist Greg Mort
Imagination’s always more delicious
than that sixteen-inch black-and-white
portion you watched in ’69. Here
the tall pines are yours—fresh
from the backwoods of childhood—
the pock-marked, telescoped-up-close
sky—no, more like magnificent,
pungent Swiss swelling the horizon
beneath an alien’s secret microscope—
the green/blue of moon-mold tempting
your conspiratorial mind with all things lunar/
lunatic, fingers ready to launch escape
to what has already landed inches away from
now, here before your ravenous eyes, still
conjuring one more flight of fancy.
