he moon is a place, is a place, a place where men have been, left their awkward footprints and that lonely flag that at first refused to stand. I forget this sometimes. I’ve wondered if they still see the moon as a place, not a grapefruit, not a thumbnail, not a light lit for lovers or murderers. Do they see the face of an old man, the face of a beautiful woman wearing blue lipstick, or is it merely terrain now? Did they forget as soon as they came back? It’s just the moon again, it’s just the moon.
      There’s a man inside the helicopter that is flying over my neighbor-hood. A man’s hand that guides the searchlight that has twice now grazed my window. It’s very late and I’m sure he is tired of searching, tired of being up in the air.
      There was someone on the other end of the phone I was just speaking into. She and I live in different times, different dots on the map. More than road between us so we say goodnight to the receivers. The phone grows cool lying next to me. It’s just a phone again, it’s just a phone.
      He said, you have to promise me that no matter what happens you will always see me as a human being. I agreed. I said I haven’t seen you as anything else. He looked almost offended. You have to promise me some-thing in return, that you won’t fade, not on purpose. He knew what I meant. (People fade all the time. They wake up one morning and the burden of self is more than they can bear. Generally, these are the people who build levees to manage the rage and flow of life that their intelligence affords them. Sooner or later all levees break.) We’ve had conversations about this. We’re always talking about the delicate nature of the mind. We’ve used many analogies: reflections on a still lake, a spider’s web, I like sand paintings and he says “Oh, don’t say sand paintings.” He and I have a different sense of metaphor but we both agree a strong wind and we could lose ourselves. Not on purpose, not on purpose. There’s a lot to be said for thinking outside the box, yet I don’t believe we could ever fit the ocean in a paper cup. What I’m saying is, you think too much about your own fragility and the whole thing starts to quiver, the lake turns choppy, the colors bleed, the spider is washed out. (Some thoughts shouldn’t be finished.)
      From way up there, from his point of view, we’re just lights in a window, citizens nestled safely between two locked doors. It’s inevitable that he sees us this way. He’s not a robot. Inventory. This is his job.
      There is a place in the town I grew up in that certain locals call The Blue Hole. Others call this place the quarries. Both are accurate. It is a quarry and the water that fills the holes is extremely blue and, of course, “bottomless.” In the summer, flocks of teenagers go there to swim and jump from the cliffs that surround the water. I’ve spent more days there than I can count, walked the narrow path through private property with a towel under one arm and beer under the other. Yet only once did I spend the night there. Myself and two friends from school decided to camp there; we brought beer, sleeping bags, and one of those huge flashlights. We laid down our things at the spot we’d chosen and wandered down to the shore where we shone light down into the deep water. And there we saw them. Eyes. The glowing eyes of very large fish, hundreds of them down there, barely moving. I thought of all the times I had swam there and had no idea what was below me. They were under there the whole time.
      I’m lying on the roof of my house. There’s a girl lying next to me. The night is clear and cool so we’ve brought blankets. The light from the stars is millions of years old but I’m thinking of transitory things. Lying on my back, stars are all I can see, stars like the eyes of fish at the bottom of a lake that’s deeper than anything you know. I live in space. This thought gives me a chill and we pull the night, the blankets, and our bodies closer. My head on her shoulder now, I trace a constellation from her silhouette. I feel this world could throw me off, instead it rolls under me. I swim in this lake. This world keeps me.
      Depending on the traffic, it will take him twenty minutes to drive to work, more or less. He’s early, pours a cup of coffee and then another for his wife. He can’t find his keys. She says “You need to have a place where you will always put them, a hook or something.” He finds them where he always finds them and sits across from her at the kitchen table. She tells him about the day she just had, a boss she’ll never understand, how much longer it took her to get home. He wants to keep listening but now he has to go. He grabs his jacket, kisses her lips, and leaves for the night. At work he signs in, walks the tarmac, adjusts his headset and runs through a checklist. He’s flying.
      She’s screaming something through sobs, it doesn’t sound human, she’s begging him not to leave. Her face twists from sorrow to rage then back to sorrow with every box he stacks by the door, with every piece of clothing he removes from the closet. “I can’t, I can’t” he says, that’s all he can say, carrying and stacking the boxes almost mechanically, like a robot. She’s grabbing at him but he doesn’t stop. He’s walking from the closet to the front door, arms empty, arms full, and she starts to throw things. Candles, CDs, then plates. They shatter against the wall. She wants to hear anything but the sound of her own crying, the sound of him not. (All of those with large hearts smash them like plates against the wall, hoping they will break. Eventually we all find someone who can catch the plates before they hit, not that we ever stop throwing them.) He turns on the porch light and carries his things to the car. It’s over, it’s finally over.
      Dispatch, over the headset, screaming and the sound of breaking glass. He’s given the general vicinity. First pass over reveals nothing. Second, a man dribbles a basketball down Park, a couple lying together on a rooftop, a man carrying boxes to his car—nothing out of the ordinary. Thank God, he thinks. Now I can go home.
      More and more lately I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I lie in my bed and listen to myself breathe, the way I listen to the traffic, like they have no right, making all that noise. Counting cars, counting breaths, thinking too much. (Once I saw a spider spin a web and die right after.) I think it is more than just the mind that is delicate and I know there’s a place in me, made for me—I forget that sometimes. I forget that the man in the helicopter just wants to go home. I forget that behind every pair of headlights is at least one life in progress. I forget that the moon is a place, that it always has been and would have been even if no one ever went there. That people are people whether or not I ever get to know them. I forget constantly. That a life is worth something. A life, these lives, mine.
      There’s a space between us but it’s different than you think. It isn’t a void and it isn’t a chasm, it’s just a simple misunderstanding. I am not foreign. I’m not trying to be incomprehensible. Hey, it’s me. I’m standing here. I’m just standing here trying to see what you really are.