Don’t let an imploding star as seen through some mega-lens telescope worry you for our ancient fiery orb. Your words are measured by a sputter of hydrogen, the treason of nitrogen, the unwillingness of breathable air to stick around when suns give up the flaming ghost. Your ideas, even on such humble matters as love, take the gutting of our solar system into consideration, the fact that every lip you kiss, each cheek you gently touch with trembling fingers, is potential space dust, the kisser, toucher, likewise. Yes, it’s all the care they said would never rust that’s now as patchy as a Dalmatian, the termite-proofed house that’s crawling in those wood-gnawing infidels. But think of all the good limes in that car, that house. Nothing like a doomed planet to fire the hormones on all cylinders. So what if one day there’ll be no Shakespeare, no Kubrick, no elephants, no USA. Take your nervous eyes off the future for a moment, reenter the present’s atmosphere. I’m like the sun myself. What better way of burning out than burning for you.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis,
Dalhousie Review, and Connecticut River Review. Latest books, Leaves On
Pages and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon.