Tycho is my favorite crater. Fifty-three miles wide, impressed in the southern lunar highlands. Its eject blankets a network of rays extended like arms to embrace us when we arrive. Yes, we’re going to live there in a large plastic air bubble with auxiliary bubble in case. We’ll have a perfect view of Earth in its agony, the seas rising to wash away the human stain. In downtown Hartford decades after Wallace Stevens left it, I heard the vacant storefronts cough like hopeless smokers, their ghosts unraveled, lying flat, the landlords reduced to ash. I heard the river of rivers snickering as incoming tide reversed its flow, threatening to overwhelm the weedy levees. I knew it was time to relocate to the surface of the moon where the windless light and dark would stifle the warp of time. Einstein didn’t think of that, although his antennae detected the slightest cosmic nuance. He would have thought the bubble of necessary air too large to transport. He didn’t think of running plastic tubing from Earth to inflate the bubble, which we’ll ship all folded up and erect upon arrival. You’ll like living in a bubble. You’ll find Tycho picturesque as the mountains of Japan. Let’s practice holding our breath and let’s save up for the spaceship that will free us from this planet of decrepitude, grief and decay. Soon enough the crunch will come, nuclear war and pestilence. But we’ll be off in a stink of blazing hydrogen, our last exclamation nailed to the sky.