What a meager galaxy there is
in this vending machine cinnamon roll,
that metal spiral that turns to free it. Who knows
what else is out there.
They canceled the space program
and the universe is expanding wildly
-into what? I eat the center
and toss the rest: breakfast, a sacrifice
to Terminus, the God of borders. Now, let us pray
that the horizon, that lousy line
we’ve been waiting in, will end
up somewhere other
than where we started.
What a terrible morning this is, whirling
breakneck through space,
queasy with the view from the bus,
no cords to pull, stop requested, please
driver, somewhere beyond, where they have better
coffee, more perfect drugs.