Not that I don't want to walk the streets with you.
But when I sit on a suspended turtle shell
hanged from risen arms and don't think it's magic
is the issue. It should be magic.
We walked through spider webs.
Middle-school basketballers howled
like playing wolves behind us.
A rock split and whizzed past us like a meteor:
hurled through space and time
to find us here
and still barely missed.
Thousands of light years
on the pin of a needle.
Striking sandy bits of gravel.
Clanging like dropped silverware.
The fridge is packed with eggs inside.
Vodka lives frozen but still fills glasses
topped with orange juice. They swirl
and marry happily and end
in a bathroom, anyway.
As if chocolate swirls in ice cream
didn't represent the arms of the galaxy.
Comets made of custard and fairy
dust move in high speeds and
travel in circles smaller than us.
I know at great range
there is someone else I will barely miss.
by James Croal Jackson