He sits in his rocking chair
Moon on his lap
He asks his wife for some more ice
In his eyeball-glass
She looks out the kitchen window
Eyes fixed on Antares-
The fish hook of the sky
Mars’ rival in its palace
She wonders why, if hunter’s dead,
She still feels strong desire
“**** yourself before it kills you”
Whispers the star of fire
The son sits Indian style
Upon his race-car bed
He prays to Pluto and the sun
And ponders in his head,
“Am I proud to be an earthling?”
“Could my skin transform to fur?”
Then he closed his eyes
And realized
It’s not as they are
But as they were