Richard Epstein

If Earth Is Not Really A Planet

NO OTTERS ON OUR ASTEROIDS. IF WE
ARE JUST A MOON, THEN THIS IS MY BARE ASS.
A complicated placard for a drive-
By crowd, although the honking in support
May suggest otherwise. Motorists blast
Through multiple dimensions, could be hoping
The President is here impugned or fur
Disparaged (astronauts repel the worst
Of cosmic rays and BEMs without
Mink cuffs or sable collar). Look, we are
Much smaller than the Gas-bags, much too large
To view the aspirations of our kind:
We might as well be Jains; we do no harm
To those 1:1,000,000,000, though we curve
And meet ourselves, grown old and small and hard.

Little Elijah Dance

Little Elijah cannot find his pants.
Do you suppose this will forestall the dance
Great joy requires? Not the slightest chance.

He drags his feet through mud. He shakes his head.
He beats his little fists until they’ve bled
Upon the yard he slowly colors red.

The sparrows flee. The boxer pup retreats.
The crows applaud, guffawing from their seats,
As though instructed by his infant feats.

His mother is embarrassed and his pa
Humiliated by the breach of law.
Such misplaced gametes might occlude his craw,

Were he not drunk and god-fearing. This child,
The funk of bees and puddles make a wild
Embouchure: and he blows as though defiled

By thoughts of nap or spinach. But he’s not.
Little Elijah does not feel so hot,
And soon the crows pick up what he forgot.