The Axe of Civilization
The moon is punched into the sky,
half hidden.
Under this mid-summer half- moon
a tree is carved from a block of wood;
this tree effigy is of course rootless, infertile.
It is the height of Barbie, or Ken, as shapely,
as slender, and easily held in a hand,
as the ax of civilization is held in the hand
as it swings...
The moon knows I am looking for its mystery, what is left of its mystery in this 21st century.
How I cannot see the robots roaming
its surface, and where two space explorers
stepped, long ago; how I can only see it is an ancient spirit- less decor' of the celestial
sphere. I stand looking up, at the moon,
it always catches the eye...
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