25 Minutes on the Far Side of the Moon

You, the thirteenth Apollo, pen presumptive, head for the lunar orb to write of what is written on her pale face. Bits break away until you are naught but a stub. Regardless, you tumble through inhospitable tracts. Regardless, you aim for the oft-lauded landscape.

Once near the beginning, she baked in her companion's gaze. The warmth thinned the lunar skin so that, in her youth, with every impact, she bloomed with basaltic blood: a makeup, a mask, a smoothing cream. It is an old story. Now, drawing near, your truncated crayon can only add adverbial signposts to a previous plot.

Except! Around you go.

"Lunar occultation entered 77:08."*

The implement is muted; communication closed.

The secret physiognomy is pitted by an ancient pox of asteroids; the makeup, more, the mask removed. More thickly encrusted than her public face, few seas bubbled up and bled; although there are one or two, weathered from when the wounds were most severe.

Sigh, the sea of Australe. Sigh, the sea of Ingenii.

One crater, the southern aching basin, the deepest scar in the system solar, pricked nearly to the heart. And lo! Moving on, boulders discarded like dishes in a grim-rimed, grime-rimmed sink, soiled wash cascaded into craters, a dome of disconnected toys, books piled, then pushed; a landscape not to be lauded, but derided.

Limp on home, voyeurs.

But no, it matters little now, you’ve traversed the terrain. Maybe, just this once, trail a dark life line around a round white page.

"Lunar occultation exited 77:33."*

*from Apollo 13 Timeline