Respite. Awe.

Proof we are awake:

the galaxy, streamed like sugarbag

in a char branch

fronted by chinning bees.

The illuminant immense

irrefutable by science.

The past at all its depths,

dream countries for surplus people.

Campfires of the once vivid.

No one solid, feeding their bones

to null gravity, has travelled

one light-minute in the rocket age

but Astaire globes on out

into brown light, toward Betelgeuse

with no rattle from his tap-shoes.

Drips of light speeding earthward.

Tonight, sane people will be whaled

aloft by aliens, for science,

and returned uneaten.