The Aquariums

When we went to the stars, we took our aquariums with us--we took the smell of cut grass, peacock feathers. The aquariums filled with our interior cities, rooms of timeless night. Inside the night rooms, we kept our storage trunks of earth. There were black tulips arranged in a bottle. There were candles and elephants on wheels. We peeled oranges. We scattered pearls like moons.

It was so dark, we couldn't see the stars. We counted snails and fireflies.

In the shells we could hear the sea.

In the night rooms, the books fluttered, opened. Pages covered themselves with words.

The clocks ticked off bruised violet hours, summer afternoons, gin and lemonade on front porches.

The telephones were waiting. They would ring when we arrived.

Time passed outside, and the dreams of earth continued. Bodies submerged in bright fluid, hearts pumping, lungs breathing in and out. No sound in the silent ship but the whisper of efficient machinery. Snails climbed the aquariums, where bubbles speak of air.