O Mote Remote

The planet rocks, the boulder

floats and sails, your fingers

appear larger under light.

I’m kidding, that telescope

is covered.

Why, who would know how

air works without space so filterless

unless tardigrades

or sandwich leavings or dandruff’s

your pleasure. An aubade

of O’s, fill the sky with sunset

so scarlet the O’Hara’s reach

for their binoculars. O lonely planet

just like here, a plate of continents

dished up to twirl, looking for landing

the breeze retrieves more.