If Saturn’s rings were gold I’d wear them
round my neck and ascend to ice,
My eyes can touch her through the speed of light.
She is the beacon, illusory and pragmatic.
Who rides those rings? I have, in a dream,
the same dream I witnessed Pluto shed himself
of identity and Chiron find his place.
I’d wear those rings of golden ice,
buried in her heavy mottled cloak – it’s
Saturn’s price to orbit her voluptuous body.
There’s sanity in not wanting to be bound to Earth,
its lack of sheen, its distant blue forever.
