Poem in Which Proust Detects Exoplanets

We are as jealous as Swann of the stars,
of what they’re doing out there in the dark,
of whom they’re seeing behind our backs
when they have sent us home sans cattleya
to our lonely flats, where we realise
that all that ice-hot charm we took for ours
is radiating on the spectrograph
of a rival’s smile, the neat rows of teeth,
the absorption lines in their irises.
Although it’s late, and it humiliates,
we take a black cab back and wait outside
her window, watching shadows flux the light
through the shutters, to and fro, to and fro:
we find the exoplanet that kills us.

Simon Barraclough

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s