As dark and distant spheres resound like whale song in our ears
and cosmic microwaves caress our spirit,
we pioneer, alone, across infinities of tone,
amazed that we’re the only ones who hear it.
While we glide amid the planets plump as plums and pomegranates,
sailing with the interstellar current,
the sounds we make are quiet or they’re louder than a riot,
but for grooving, neither’s ever a deterrent.
With clari-snare and flute-o-phone and tromba-sax and lute,
xylo-horn and cymbal-harp and cello,
we shake our little craft with a great hurricane-like draft,
cacophonous while synchronously mellow.
There’s no one at the wheel; the skipper capers to a reel,
a jig, flamenco, jota, or a salsa.
While galaxies collide, we’re absolutely occupied
as we zip through space in a ship as light as balsa.
If we chance on a black hole and, inattentive, lose control,
free-falling ever faster in its eddy,
we won’t freak out or panic, we will go on being manic
till the cosmos bellows, “Guys, enough already!”