Sometimes I wish I were still out

    on the back porch， drinking jet fuel

    with the boys， getting louder and louder

    as the empty cans drop out of our paws

    like booster rockets falling back to Earth

    and we soar up into the summer stars.

    Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead，

    bearing asteroids and mist， blind fish

    and old space suits with skeletons inside.

    On Earth， men celebrate their hairiness，

    and it is good， a way of letting life

    out of the box， uncapping the bottle

    to let the effervescence gush

    through the narrow， usually constricted neck.

    And now the crickets plug in their appliances

    in unison， and then the fireflies flash

    dots and dashes in the grass， like punctuation

    for the labyrinthine， untrue tales of sex

    someone is telling in the dark， though

    no one really hears. We gaze into the night

    as if remembering the bright unbroken planet

    we once came from，

    to which we will never

    be permitted to return.

    We are amazed how hurt we are.

    We would give anything for what we have.