It's like—when you
wake and you
walk out the front door alone
and the
morning's all mudsilver,
silent
beads of dew on greenblue
hostas in the wet dirt
spring to mind
visions of
faraway planets
whose hot
remotest jungles
and freezing
cold untrammeled beaches
are airless, soundless vistas
where
you can't smoke cigarettes
and
music won't exist
and which
you'd practically have to be
dying—to visit.