Arachnid fingers
picking at my heart
like the peach pit
torn from its soft, sweet home and
swiftly discarded.
Stuck to the side of a garbage bag,
perhaps one day it will take root
in some far off landfill and
grow into a clumsy metaphor
for beauty
amid heaps of ****.

That girl
with the cotton candy colored hair at
the corner of Fourth and Chestnut
struggles
with four garment bags.
Where the **** is she going
with four garment bags?
I see her every day,
sweating,
shifting her burdens
from arm to shoulder,
then back to arm.
Except when I’m running late;
quarter past whenever.

At least tomorrow is Friday
when we can all gag on our toothbrushes.
The privilege of a clean mouth
should come
with some discomfort.

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.

I look up
          I see the moon staring
I look down
          And I see the earth singing
I close my eyes
          Then I realize the galaxy flirting
                                                  with you
                                                  your eyes
                                                  your vessel
                                                  your soul
                                                  gazing
   ­                                               rotating
As if You are the center of the galaxy.

And to You, the sun is envious,
And to me, You are insidious.