The astronaut’s behind the wheel of ’91 Saturn (Aristotelian, a machine of all the elements: silver paint like water, the lingering smell of earth, a driver of air, an engine of fire), with quintessence, the road.
I forget which came first: gravel or stardust; we’re trying to get lost but can’t seem to shake the Big Dipper. I’ve one hand on the leather and the other on your face; we’ve parked somewhere by Neptune, cold and blue, always morning.
We should pretend to be real people for a while, waste some precious oxygen; stop trying to remember we’ve been here before. Remember that uncharted was the point.
written in October 2014 to-be published in the ICA Literary Magazine 2016