On backyard grass
in morning dewdrop,
I scrawl Are We Alone?
on the paper I tie to Sally,
my homing pigeon, who vaults
into a blooming blue sky.
Back to my bedroom’s
environment, I ask my mind:
is a denizen
of Proxima Centauri
lurking their telescopic vision
for a wavelength broadcast
flowing from Earth, from humanity,
from my divorced self’s
atmospheric abandonment?
Through booming clouds,
Sally swoops to my ex’s eyes, eyes
I still love.