Somehow, even the inimitable
rings of Saturn—so musical
and gossamer,
so holy and Pythagorean
when viewed from afar—
no longer seem quite as mystical
now that they're
all chopped up and crammed
in the gutters,
along every streetcurb, under
every idle grayscale car
and too-tired-to-fall-down
overpass in town.
This time of year,
surveilling the infinite
bits of gravel
and the odd example
of alien junk suspended
in chunks
of ancient ice—is nothing
special.
