Mission to the Moon

Shattered in my mouth
There are splinters in these words
Thorns and roots and tangles
I have spoken
Then spitting out my teeth
Into a little silver cup
I wake up cold
With eyes wide open

I remember climbing trees
And 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
Or it might be childhood

Summer sheets
And dampened footfalls
Cotton clinging to my skin
Kite strings
And paper wings
Missions to the moon

Oh, it won't wait
No, it won't wait
They're pulling out the pin
And in all mis-directions
Missles will rain and skies will rip

But shadowed in my mouth
There are pieces of this world
Hidden in the words
We have not chosen