A lost ant, on the moon,
this donation can not effect much
but withholding it would need
cell walls unfeasibly thick.
One more overdrawn gesture
a handful of grass the horses disdain;
a call into the vacuum;
a message from the other side.

A soap-bubble a child blows
clearly holds more oxygen,
though the wind from a firestorm 
lifting my hair glamorously
is real and, not quite a statue yet,
I must respond. No one is coming
to drag me from this banquet
like anyone else, I must drag myself.