On Returning to the City From Ossabaw Island

Last night's dishes sit haphazard in the sink, stacked 

in flame-fanned exuberance after we hosed out the bonfire,

the steam billowing up through the Spanish moss, obscuring

the stars, the comedown how an astronaut must feel upon returning

to Earth, even in weightlessness weighted by dread, the end

of being outside it all, in a place where you can count on a two hands

the number of humans there with you  – back to the masses,

the jam-packed, stacked like dishes in cupboards upwards, 

back to doing laundry, meeting deadlines, reading emails,

grading papers, paying bills. Play your cards right , play

your cards right and you might get somewhere; did you

know? It takes 40 gallons of sap to make one of syrup.

Imagine watching the earth from space, the curved 

line where sunrise slides over its surface. Alarm clock,

tea kettle, coffee grinder, toothbrush: ordinary morning

chorus. The astronaut in reentry to the atmosphere would see

the panorama breaking, the earth obscured by earth.