This moon was a planet just like the earth, only it is even deader.
The pistols of its flowers are the only protection against insetcs,
which were more preoccupied with the half rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim undet their own garments.
History tells us of their blood flowing down one leg and up the other.
Memories insoluble to their conscience, memories,
outside themselves in a twisted prank played upon them by dogs tired of chasing their food.
Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially.
Flashes of their purpose stripped to skeletal ornaments of meat
and resin from animal marks flciker over the loudscreen.
Machines hum quietly in the distance.
A few naive inhanbitants wander foolishly after sundown in search of black spots,
but no one leaves this moon carefree of memory.
Survivors often match their hands upward towards greater satellites,
wronged in the eyes by a million miles and a million more bodies to sift through.
The smaller creatures have the secret to pinning us down to the dirt:
When they breathe, they inspire, when we breathe, we expire.
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