We lay a blanket on earth for a little picnic

An asteroid with no thought of anything but its own projectile has little concern for its impact—A volcano with good intentions choking air and blocking sun.

 

I have come to think of earth herself as an astronaut. Her helmet, her bubble of atmosphere. Her tilt toward her sun, her erection—

 

But I don’t know anything—I’m just picnicking here—watching the swish

 

in the hips of human beings—back and forth and back and forth and back—all the way back to our ancestors the fish.

 

I don’t know anything. Dear Oona,

 

what if human beings are just tiny volcanoes? What if human beings are just tiny asteroids?