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Radio Telescope in Love with Space


I can listen 

I can listen all-day

I do listen all day,

and all night too for that matter…


But if I could pack 

more days in each year

more hours in each day

more minutes in each hour

more seconds in each minute

I would—


Just for you.



Just so I could 

process your voice

whispering in frothy galaxies

sighing away dimming stars

shouting blackholes through

my antenna.


I like it best when

my face is turned up.


It must be toward you.


Or do I only imagine

that you warm me with your gaze,

only to cool me with indifference

over and over

warm, cool, warm, cool

until the two blur

into that general feeling of you.


Your world fills mine,

but fragmentally.

I’m terrified…

that I may never understand

you— all of you.


I wake up from dreams shivering,

where I’m invisible,

floating in a vast sea of your presence.



But what horrifies me more

is that I’m listening to

some echo of you

and that you no longer exist.


And then I dwell on my own death…


It’s nearer now than it once was.

I’ve heard the men who work on me

brag of a smaller sharper

younger system

that will replace my bulky shell.


I hope they unbolt me,

for I know humans have hearts.—

bundled me in a rocket

and send me up to meet you,



and then, and then;

who knows what 


Morning Voice (mountain research station)

The extended groan of the door,

bare feet whisking across carpeting


Melissa’s staccato typing

punctuated by a dry cough

that collapses the article I’m reading,

the couch beneath me,

leveling the floor and spaces

separating us


I’m one of two conscious people

in a sleeping house


Gusts of wind push at the house,

defining its sheltered interior;

A constant electric buzz

betrays the hidden workings

behind walls


My first-story perch

opens up to the larger common room;

triangular windows capturing blue sky

and the poised bell-like lights,

hanging patiently, waiting

to be switch back into life


The drip of fluid—

Coffee and showers,

more feet, zippers, Snuffling,

over the flick of turned pages,

and the jostling and tinkling,

of kitchen wares


A smell and popping sizzle

declarative of fried eggs

on cheap vegetable oil

The ribbon whispers of the conscientious,

solo then weaving together, and around each other

attempting to both preserve and breach the silence

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