Sometimes I wish I were still out 

on the back porch, drinking jet fuel 

with the boys, getting louder and louder 

as the empty cans drop out of our paws 

like booster rockets falling back to Earth



and we soar up into the summer stars. 

Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead, 

bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish 

and old space suits with skeletons inside. 

On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,



and it is good, a way of letting life 

out of the box, uncapping the bottle 

to let the effervescence gush 

through the narrow, usually constricted neck.



And now the crickets plug in their appliances 

in unison, and then the fireflies flash 

dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation 

for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex 

someone is telling in the dark, though



no one really hears. We gaze into the night 

as if remembering the bright unbroken planet 

we once came from, 

to which we will never 

be permitted to return. 

We are amazed how hurt we are. 

We would give anything for what we have.