THANK YOU, MR. SAGAN
Oh, it's nice to return
to the twentieth century
blockaded from invasion
and lame radio shows
about how Jesus
loves the athletes,
his rich children,
who can achieve
so much with a cleat.
In The Letters To
The Mount Wilson Observatory,
every day blazed
with irresistible keys
brandished by real citizens
with big sensitive heads
compelled to tell us
the almighty resided
in the Orion Nebula
or that humans used
to live on the moon
until it melted.
Oh, please can we
all be muscular
hummingbirds,
jeweled fools
beating our wings
at gaps in what passes
for understanding
in a vestigial wind.
The world is not
a polyphonic monster.
If possible, may we
refrain from eavesdropping
on erudite ancestors?
Consider what we've done
to virgins, toasting on an open fire
or hosting that obsession with reptiles,
all sacred and chicane. Humans
are a moony crew, a ship's list.
Still lost but stalking the location
of a true galactic home.
Neither frozen, nor crackpot,
not noble, not alone.
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This poem contains a reference to an online exhibit of very eccentric letters received from the general public by The Mount Wilson Observatory.
My heartfelt thanks to Minneapolis poet Jennifer L. Willoughby for today's entry of The Celestial Monochord. Contact me for copyright and other information on this poem and this poet's work.
