We are Astronauts or The Pornography of a Backrub
What is TV, really, except light?
What is radio except dark TV,
shot from an antenna cannon out to Jupiter?
What is Jupiter except a dark sun,
aristocratic gasses flirting at cocktail parties,
never to fuse, learn rejection, or mercy fuck?
What are we except bits of Jupiter?
You hydrogen, me helium, swirling
into a night time bomb in outer space,
rubbing smoke but not fire into the vacuum,
caressing electrons, and waiting
for one another to light each other’s cigarette?
What is color except stolen light,
stashed in rainbows for selfish consumption,
our first step toward total nightfall?
What is this space between my hands
and your shoulders, except enough light-
years long for a million tiny Jupiters?
by Robin Sontheimer