Astronomers have senses of humor:
they speak of lobsters, of dumbbells,
of salt, of beehives, of crocodile eyes,
making small metaphors to name
something bigger than us all, driven by
fear they can’t name. They laugh:
this one will be the smoking gun
galaxy or this will be the critter cluster.
They compress universe after universe
to the size of earth, children blotting away
stars with their thumbs, never grasping
it’s an optical illusion until they come
to understand classifying heavens
is a try at erasing the random.
I’ve stood on sidewalks at night, hands high,
attempting to erase a nebula or two.
Still I missed my flight because the robot
had to explode the airport bomb.
Still I was crammed between two men
bigger than me for the whole of the Atlantic.
Still I lost my baggage. Maybe it went to London.
Still my mother died before I arrived.