Against too many writers of science fiction

Why did you lure us on like this,
Light-year on light-year, through the abyss,
Building (as though we cared for size!)
Empires that cover galaxies
If at the journey's end we find
The same old stuff we left behind,
Well-worn Tellurian stories of
Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,
Whose setting might as well have been
The Bronx, Montmartre, or Bedinal Green?

Why should I leave this green-floored cell,
Roofed with blue air, in which we dwell,
Unless, outside its guarded gates,
Long, long desired, the Unearthly waits
Strangeness that moves us more than fear,
Beauty that stabs with tingling spear,
Or Wonder, laying on one's heart
That finger-tip at which we start
As if some thought too swift and shy
For reason's grasp had just gone by?

I have yet to stop a lightning bolt
With much success.
Where there's a will, there is
Always the risk of
Disembodiment.

So human. So confident.
*Mine is the will of the world.
Mine are the odds
Of gods.

Ginger moon
Pulling the tide away
From feet soothed
By water.

I follow. Further down
The river bank.
Until I see her mirrored
By water.

Two moons, each to
Each other mere reflection.
True of all constellations.
By water

I ballance on wet rock,
Called closer unto
The silent circular siren.
By water

I am tenacious moth.
Leaving all other love behind;
It's her and I now.
By morning

I'll be gazing up at her too.
From next to her rippled
Twin. Nested; buried
By water.