the physics of excursions to the moon//or such

gouache on paper

.
there’s poetry
even in brussels sprouts,
yet this one’s best time
passed already

“you look ugly” i say,
knife in hand & peeling back
layer after layer
for some fresh green,
wondering how i’d mix that color
if i’d paint ’em

just a bit ago,
i broke a giant glass plate
when i tried to frame
the accordion player, who
coincidently looks like my son,

standing there, a bit clueless
how to clean the mess
without cutting my hands,
wondered
about movement &
the math of things,
unstable in themselves

in school i learned,
glass is a liquid actually–
it seems so solid, but still moves,
we just can’t see,

because of this we think
it never happens,

i wipe my hands
as the phone rings, it’s hubs
from at work for the 5th time

“sir” i say, “this is telephone terror–”

“just thought i’d see what you’re doing”

“hmmm, i–”

but some things
are not that easy to explain,
so i ask “do you know why glass
can break, even though it is a liquid
physically?”

“it’s amorph”

“right”

“cause they cool it down so quickly–
you broke something–?”

& i go back to the kitchen,
pass the broken glass, my watercolors,
venus, mars, a splintered milky way,

on the floor, the scattered plans
for a rocket into space