I swung by my ophthalmologist yesterday. She snapped a snapshot of my eyeballs laced in a pink permeation like that pink exoplanet reminiscent of a dark cherry blossom:
that’s what a NASA astronomer said from his NASA highchair after he peered through a lens to watch the wobble of a mother sun as her blossom child recklessly spins like an adolescent taking a swig of his father’s gin. The fourteen year old broke the cabinet lock off, gawked into the clear liquid — can I feel alive now? shot through the chinatown of his brain
like a galactic courier coasting within a galactic hug. Her windshield shields the glare of maternal sunrays blanketing the cosmos with ultraviolet warmth. At the planet’s precipice, the blossom-blooming clouds jettison her back, back to her father’s Missouri garden
where his newlywed hands once planted a cherry seed when the rains came with a clap.