A planet opens up in the real estate section of the morning paper
and we jump to in hopes of better schools and bigger yards,
a new ozone to pick at with earth-caked fingernails
and too many cows passing gas, rivers bloating so thick
they carry our bodies straight to our families’ doors.
Another planet opens, and we’re gasping – look, baby –
these things are for grasping, they could be move-in ready
by 2040, how opportune! We start labeling furniture
with post-it notes for what we’ll take or leave behind.
By now, three orbs hum around a dwarf star,
crashing into our Very Small Human Lives
and we almost can’t take it, giddy with thirst,
more in the Big Big U to quest and capture –
maybe Arrival was just a manual, maybe the fascist fall
of the U.S. just the period at the end of a dirty joke,
Gore’s VHS in a capsule somewhere, left to implode
as new planets keep blooming. Here, lean
into the telescope – everything the light touches
could be settled, bulldozed and tar-filled, a fat pipeline
shot through the stomach: go on, baby, conquer
TRAPPIST-1 is hungry for your oil-sticky fingers,
it’s itching for you, it’s trembling, now hurry up – fetch.