This way to the moon

You said, let me look up
and pray the prayers of my childhood.

I say, let me burn in your throat
instead.

This is the way to the moon.

To build landmarks,
you will say, I want to say something
that you'll agree with.

I watch the smoke from your lips
rise like a prayer. I agree.

That we'll fight over
beer and reconcile over the last star
of morning,

I will respond. (Thinking
about the sun. Too late.)

We will definitely get lost.
I hope.

Once, we turned on spaces
when we had nothing
to talk about.

You hand me a piece of paper,
beer-stained. Let me tell you,
you begin. I face the same space

some sound of the wind
is trying to occupy.

Let me tell you again,
your silence pieces
things together
better than my words.

The wind is talking to my skin.
I hear an echo, somewhere.

We're nearing the moon. Here.
The first men

to see the moon did not see
faces, I proposed. They said nothing.

The first woman saw
a womb. Words are still being
born in this poem, you wrote.

I look at everything else. Home.

We are getting somewhere
fast. We have no ride back.

Look, the moon is not moving
despite ripples on your glass.