Blame it on the Greeks, or Newton.
We've learned to chop it up
into manageable bits.
Observe.
Record.
Write the equastion.
There's no mystery.
The wallflowers all agree:
they don't like to dance.
The thoroughly modern Times was matter-of-fact about it:
8 P.M. E.S.T. the Moon occults with Venus.
Nothing woo-eee-woo here!
Just don't miss your chance.
See? Time is a line in print.
Guests gather at night in the street to watch.
The rare sight in the dark overhead stuns.
Balloons rise, corks pop, voices rise
Like a shout from the wedding chamber above
signaling the marriage begins.
I feel like dancing a Zydeco whoop-de-do
Friends begin leaving. One bore remains
to continue his scientific droning where the Times left off.
While Venus hangs a miracle on the point of the Moon
he's on and on about how he's changed since he left the corporation.
What a joke. Oh God.
I wonder if there is any wine left.
