Moon Landings 1.

Armstrong, out there,
Liberty’s own spaceman,
a descendent of Scots,
her home-bred alien.

I stared, TV-squared,
at the moon-struck man,
stepped into gloaming
on that far foreign land:

I landed in New York,
spaced-out, years after,
to build my designs for
city-folks’ laughter:

But all I could hear
was The Statue’s greeting,
a fixed stare to the east,
hiding her weeping.

See Moon Landings 2.

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