My closing eyes find them in the dark,
my eyes that can’t see anything like to make things up:
Jackhammers chipping away at the cosmos nextdoor,
the cosmos so light I could blow them away.
Being stardust and radio waves in empty space,
the workers listen in their parallel universe to a radio
beyond their hammering. Like clocks. Like fists
pounding at the door, an earthly music of the spheres—
same old “Blue Bayou”, different silver moon.
Their luna—my evening tide—tugging at the water’s body.
All morning I’ve been trying to yank from my skin
a cantora so supple she bends me in two.
The cosmos bustle with frightened space—
then there are neighbors in all their neighborhoods;
their starry blossoms promising more than
tomatoes in stilted orbits flopping down:
a promise, a force poised and ready for the next move
there in conceptual space—and here on earth.