Earth
Curious how far Earth’s gunshots echo,
I walk to fast-spinning Jupiter
and find the roar all-pervading.
On the yellow rings of Saturn
my ears refuse to believe
the unbroken, endless report.
On the dwarf planet Pluto
the clamor and din is too much.
Beneath its five moons I falter.
My map proposes Alpha Centauri.
Rocket ships can’t reach Alpha Centauri –
it’s twenty-five trillion miles away –
but my technology is walking boots.
With gunshots ringing, I push on
through riddled, desolate space
until I find a deserted world
gunshots do not disturb,
a serene place of great tranquility,
a muted necropolis of boneyards,
burial mounds, and marble sepulchers
lamented by infinite hosts of quailing stars.
Richard Jones is a poet whose recent books include Passport (Green Linden Press) and Stranger on Earth (Copper Canyon Press). He is the editor of the literary journal Poetry East. www.RichardJonesPoetry.com
See more of his work in 8.4 and 8.4 and 8.4 and 4.1 and 4.3 and 5.3