They tore like the Oh-My-God particle
across the universe, like comets or neutron stars
blazing a trail. I wanted to get away.
I'd say, beam me up, Scotty-no,
a misquotation-they only said, beam us up
and beam them up, but who is us? Who's them,
and who would I take with me? No one-
I used to feel better off on my own.
Leaving the earth behind to fly with moons
and more had young children wanting
to become astrophysicists, almost.
Key word almost-not quite there, I write
poems about stellar black holes, constellations,
binary stars-the primary and their comes-instead.
I think that's just as well.
Nimoy was a poet too, took pictures-dancing
girls smiling for the camera, not the science officer
a child believed he was. He was no Vulcan,
no green-blood and incredible longevity.
Redshirts die too, flung into black holes
and warps of time, captains age, reborn
in alternate universes, souls the most human
pass on. Timeless, but mortal, final words:
A life is like a garden. Perfect moments
can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.
There must always be progress
-I think that's just as well.