The frozen dust of Pluto
becomes stirred up by a meteorite
hurled like a spitball from the furthest reaches
of outer space. Years later,
a few particles of that same dust
stick to my glasses. I wipe them off
with a handkerchief the color of
a bar of truck stop soap
as I perch on edge of a diving board
of an empty swimming pool
on the outskirts of the center
of the dusty universe. Just north
of Eureka. Beside me, a greasy paper bag
full of crabs from the Crab Shack.
My wiping is just smearing the dust around,
soon I can barely see through the smudge.
The sun rises like a can of Skoal
over the back of the abandoned bowling alley.
A few weeks later we're spraying bullets
into a California road map duct- taped to
the side of a dumpster,
hitting the the Skee-ball holes of Bakersfield,
Santa Cruz, Stockton, shot smiles in the backs
of Welcome to the San Joaquin Valley signs.
Crash land in Fresno,
cutting across motel parking lots,
shining flashlights into the gaping maws
of the vending machines.
I peer into a hole in the wall of a vacant lot
and come away with a shiner.
A ring around Saturn, a breadcrumb
asteroid belt. Satellite moths orbiting
the 40-watt center of the galaxy.