How do astronomers get anything done,
like what’s the point
of dry-cleaning
or dyeing my roots
with meteors sailing by us like bullets,
not to mention the kind of asteroid
that made small game
of dinosaurs.
It’s not that I think
it depresses them,
knowing the threat
of so much angry lint.
It’s that it must leave them
in an altered state of grace,
surrounded by clarity
that is shouting at us
if we listen:
spend it all
on love.