by Robert S. King
Some say our eyes make everything smaller
like looking down the wrong end of a telescope
where watery lights of stars swim
at the top of a well,
light years away but liquid as dream,
reflective bubbles orbiting far above
our shell-shocked past.
We do not want outsiders close
enough to touch,
just close enough to dream of,
where our own sky is the limit.
Their shells explode against ours,
barely heard.
We seldom make a move
in our mobile homes,
in our private pleasure domes,
and the scenery is better in oblivion
and in dream.
We never magnify.
We only multiply slowly,
and none from our eggs will fly.
We’re old soldiers cowering under helmets,
gazing at the static heavens
on the ceilings of our shells.
