The din of leaf blowers recalls the promise of jetpacks

and the wide-eyed at space launches.

Progress has boosted the noise level so high

I can’t hear myself think. I can feel my brain sliding

from the impenetrability of man-made clamor.

Our minds have become echo chambers of man’s refusal

to stay put. Scientists are making noises about Mars.

They have sent back space art to amplify

the thrumming of expectation that lies dormant

until we are shown something at a distance.

Here comes the thunder. Run run run. One-thousand-one,

one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, turn to see

the lightning. We sketch the stars. The quietude

of distant conflagrations in dark matter

amplifies the intrigue of light rays from before time

buzzing our rooftops. What is hope?

It’s a backfiring existence as we brake downhill.