How I gaze at the ebony wood sky,
To see a moon, with a gargantuan crater,
Through which an asteroid once travelled,
On a day back in 1968, in Memphis.
A crater called Oceanus Procellarum,
The only one named as “ocean”
In a vast valley of many sea craters.
The bullet wound that has no comparisons, as I
Hold my gaze, knowing, that America
Is still hemorrhaging from your loss.

Oceanus Procellarum, was one
Man’s dream, and a race’s holy grail;
How on the third Monday of January
We all come out to our back gardens
And look at your full moon, seeing
Your crater, the ocean, like a wound
That never forms scab, knowing,
Memphis, was the stumbling block, and
Still, how one man went from a balcony,
To a radiant satellite, and a race,
Who are forever moonstruck, to a dream;
Your reverie, Martin.

Our ebony hulls, on your still un-clotted ocean,
Saintly Elmo kindling our mast tops,
With amaranthine hope, which
One day, will become like those paper boats,
In the eyes of the children-at-heart;
Set adrift from large palm harbors,
Unburdened by the load or carry of
Paperweight dreams.

How then, strapping young black men,
Would look at the moon, still shining from afar,
More porous than a wedge of cheese,
Learning that there are millions more like them,
Holding an orange-hued ball,
Larger than a marble, smaller than a satellite,
Which when lobbed through a tall hoop,
As a jump shot or a hook shot,
Spangles dark telescopic pupils,
With the décor of stardust.