At this height there is neither winter
Nor any form of weather-an absence
In which the only turning
Is the turning of the eyes to view
Unvarying stars, the only bending is the heart’s
Slow bendings on its soft stem;
The months become enormous—years,
Millennia-distended spheres that rise
Above the bordered oceans, the mere dapplings
Of day and night, until they reach
This fleshless moment here-
Every voice, every gesture
Compressed into a single point of light.
Apollo 14
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