Spring: Dust
I’ve been talking to myself
about space. How it looks,
when the sun is still awake
or how it feels, when pavement
hisses and car engines leak
from the highway, miles
away from my ears but still
inside, my bedroom.
It’s not something that I always
understand, but I know enough
to keep my mouth shut when
the stars ask, for an opinion.
It’s a courtesy reserved for
royalty and demi-gods, lost
family and buried pets,
grade-A students and chipped flags.
Other planets watch us and
we watch television, locked
in our couches: waxed lashes
that breathe like gills. Who,
in their coffin asks Jupiter
and Saturn to give away the
secrets that only Nostradamus
took with him?
Think like the hungry
and bathe with stardust.
