The soft spots in the night sky
weep galaxies so distant
not even giant telescopes
can resolve their fuzzy outlines.
You wonder who would choose to live
so far from the nearest Starbucks,
so aloof from the art and music
superior to life itself.
I suggest that such inhabitants
have stalled in their own stone age.
They dine on raw meat and drink
water so rife with flagella
that they vomit every meal
and stay trim as ancient Romans.
You believe they’re encased
in stainless hides and have sex
with remote devices cast
in plastics easily recycled.
You expect them to appear overhead
at any moment, waving tentacles
equipped with post-digital gear.
The night doesn’t keep its secrets,
though, and the fierce spillover
of creation coughs up sparkles
of glitter you could scrape up
and serve on your best dinnerware.
Yes. those galaxies look plush
as teddy bears, but their heat,
penetrating the spectrum
and sifted through millions of light years,
could warm us every night in bed
if only you relaxed and let it.