Let the extraterrestrials look down upon our cities sprung from murder,
and our buses stalled beneath starlight, and still decide to land,
step out from their steel husks under the shaken trees,
stare up at a stalk of red light softly clicking green,
kneel with their helmets off, breathe in the smog, grasp at a tendril of car exhaust.
Stepping over a plot of irises braying their pollinated sighs,
scraping into an agar dish the rust off the grotesque claw of a garden rake,
antennae teetering toward the steam rising from the dewy yards,
tuning in each grassblade's brutally innocent aspirations,
muttering logarithmicall, shaking thick-veined heads, eyes shrunk to inhospitable pinholes,
pondering why downstreet, in a Plexiglas cubicle, a ringing goes unanswered,
apparitional in their curiosity, ancient themselves in their infinitely rational natures,
as they towel their own inscrutable fingerprints off,
every last material clue of who we think we are and why,
as they gaze skyward at the corpselight of their own sun, let them feel
instant and tranquil and bereaved in our alien night.
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My favorite poem.
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