Apollo 12

the chances of eight

in another time
of heavenly sights and murder trials
a star-cruiser crashes
into the arcing bow of another,
melting into each other as if steel were wax
the sparkling sounds of metal on metal
with fire fissures electric currents,
this time, lights out in Manhattan
along the Milky Way
and spinning thoughts of times wasted,
a star crashes
sideswiping the observation deck
of the Queen's ship
like so many ping pong balls
and one too many Princes,
the flame of a candle
lit her dark blue eyes
up like mercury,
slashing girders of high-rises
and turning screws
where bent beams turn to rubber bands
set in paint on a wall,
a day at the races
with Hank Chinanski
and the chances of eight