Mission to the Moon

Shattered in my mouth
There are splinters in these words
Thorns and roots and tangles
I have spoken

Spitting out my teeth
Into a little silver cup
I wake up cold
With eyes wide open

I remember climbing trees
Vanishing behind the branches
Cradled in the veil of make-believe

Or else I was shooting fish
In a shallow fish pond
As they glistened in the sun

It might be wrong
It might be childhood

Summer sheets
And dampened footfalls
Cotton clinging to my skin

Kite strings
And paper wings
Missions to the moon

It might be wrong
It might be wrong
It might be wrong
It might be childhood