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.