The gift of a science celestial.
It’s the atmosphere’s firework festival.
The night is a warm one, breath-catchingly clear
with the galaxy’s profile an ethereal smear.
Cricked necks and curses at errant headlights
as space detritus burns up in the heights.
But,
beware, beware
adoringly gawping,
star-strickenly fawning
ignoring the floor
and where you’re walking
‘cause you’re outside, right?
And on these humid Summer nights
your every step is beset by
slugs.
These slithy gherkins
lurking; determinedly
mucously marking their paths
Those hobos hopefully hunting
sustenance
by the garden fence
are often tragically reduced
to a smear
less ethereal and more entrails.
When we noticed all our potential victims
of heavy footed murder, we picked, toe-tipping
across the pitch-dark path, therein
turning eyes to earth and star-sights missing.
It occurred to me the verse of learning is hidden in
everyday things.
For if we live for the spectacular
we risk that sickening crack you hear
when crushing Sluggy’s cousin
to oblivious oblivion.
Similarly,
if we diligently
avoid this genocidal killing spree
we miss all the good stuff.
With eyes for the earth
and cricked necks and curses at the errant soles’ hurt.
There must be equilibrium.
At the hem of the horizon
the cleaving beam of the valiant beacon,
halfway between there and back again.
This suffocating compromise blinds us
to both wonder and loss.
When faced with this decision
I find I’d rather play
a game of sluggish hopscotch
and watch meteors when I may.
I’ll give you back your even keel,
your solid, dependable lighthouse deal
I’ll reel
with my nadirs and zeniths instead.
For as long as I’m feeling
I know I’m not dead.
