poetry by William Doreski

Saturn sidles up to the moon, 
the two outshining each other.
Through a lens, I note them nodding
and signaling like flesh beings 
rather than rock, ice, and ammonia.

I’ve often felt the moon thinking
about the myths we’ve stapled to it,
about the occasional twitch
of human presence complete
with a golf club and other trash.

But Saturn? Surely its rings
preclude any human influence,
even the innocence of naming
a pagan god no longer present.

Maybe atmospheric effects
account for the gestures I detect.
I fold my telescope and duck inside,
and in that well-lit space, repent.

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William Doreski has lived so long in the New Hampshire woods that he has become a bear and an independent voter.