Monday, November 17, 2014

DRY RUN OF AURORA OVER ANYTOWN USA—

Mauve apple-
cheeked winter 
muse, still-
dim little

patron of my
bluewhite particle
physicist's imagination—if you care
at all,
then listen

well to me
here—and respond,
in good 

old-fashioned
American, si'l vous plaît;

at this 
stage—in particular,

is there really any specific
rocket's
red glare temperature?—or rather

is it 
just all that—sort of 
nonspecific 
chilly early light

that I truly 
ought—to fritter 

away my kitchen 
counter cream

and sugar—
splitting 
hairs over?

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