And what shall we conceive of cosmos, love,
now scientists have erased azure from
our sky, finding arrays of beige above
tinged with white like some swirling liquid sum
of espresso and foamed milk? Shall we fear,
lying at night, gazing out at angels’
eyes glistening beyond our atmosphere,
it’s illusion? Do asteroids dangle
in self-igniting only to dissolve
as neutral light, their ancient bright cycles
from blue to yellow to flamed red resolved
as pale cosmetic? Let’s trade such trifles
as physics for bed—our glowing bodies wed
with spirit, blazing heaven as stars once did.
Roger Armbrust
November 3, 2009
