This moon was a planet just like earth,   Only it is even deader.   The pistols of its flowers are the only protection   Against insects, which were   More preoccupied with the   Half-rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim   Under their own garments.   History tells us of their blood   Flowing down one leg and up the other.   Memories insoluble to their conscience,   Memories outside themselves in a twisted prank   Played upon them by dogs   Tired of chasing their food.      Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially.   Flashes of their purpose   Stripped to skeletal ornaments   Of meat and resin from animal marks   Flicker over the loudscreen.   Machines hum quietly in the distance.   A few naive inhabitants wander   Foolishly after sundown   In search of black spots,   But no one leaves this moon carefree of memory.   Survivors often match their hands upward   Towards greater satellites,   Wronged in the eyes by a million miles   And a million more bodies to sift through.      The smaller creatures have the secret   To pinning us down to the dirt:   When they breathe, they inspire.   When we breathe, we expire.