A rocket hit the moon today
at seven times the speed of sound
before I’d even burnt my toast
the Falcon Nine met lunar ground.
With teslascopic eyes we heard
a plume of cratered dust arise
delayed in time by half a breath
across the distance twixt our skies.
A pile of debris thus accretes
a salvage yard for futures past
a playground for our moomin chums
of techno treasures from the blast.
A week from now in clockwork time
our chance to gaze upon the sight
which hides behind the moons own touch
eclipsing day, becoming night.
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