It is all too much.
My mind, off to anywhere
peaceful, anchors down
upon the flower-thick sky.
WASP-121b’s titanium rains
fall fast and hard, down and in.
How fast do its ripping winds
curl back to the beginning?
Can I exist in every space of my own
tidally-locked becoming,
a calm oasis from extremes
turbulent and beautiful?
The water splits apart, arid,
the soul has never plunged down;
the ocean recombines, falling heavy,
the vehicle has no mastery of wind;
and between this, twilight.

Inspired by this news item about an exoplanet and current events around the world.

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