Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and
louder
as the empty cans drop out of our
paws
like booster rockets falling back to
Earth
and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes
overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons
inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their
hairiness,
and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted
neck.
And now the crickets plug in their
appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like
punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of
sex
someone is telling in the dark, though
no one really hears. We gaze into the
night
as if remembering the bright unbroken
planet
we once came from,
to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we
have.
