To Whom It May Concern
The cans of sardines have passed their shelf date
and the cowboy in space feels
shot to death but then unfinished,
being a billion miles removed from whence
the rocket’s final stage took a bow and burned
its own curtain into a trillion-dollar cloud,
granting for the probe to fan out
into something like an apple crate.
Inside, the reincarnation of John Wayne
is standing on one leg and trying to integrate
breath into every movement as he chants
the same syllable, staring out of his fisheye lens
which, more than less, grants the same delusion
of a white picket fence trotting past a carriage horse.