jet fuel does not burn
at first; there must be
that first spark there must
always have been a first
spark, like when we greeted
each other our hellos
collided and there was a
flash but no clap
of thunder
though there
should have been and the
sound of trumpets or at
least something more than
just hello.
Here I am in love with a ball
of hydrogen ninety-three
million miles from me and
every animal
[including man]
enjoys
being scratched behind
the ears.
I refuse to believe this poem is about anything other than me.