watching stars in the cold, dark laneway,
wool-mittened fingertips intertwined
“that’s Venus.” he says, pointing
the brightest pinprick of light wavering in the night
do you know it spins backwards?
tidal forces disobedient, massive atmosphere
spinning around it like a hula-hoop
that on it’s surface a day is longer than a year?
(imagine watching the sun set
through the yellow smog for weeks)
i want to ask,
did you read about the Vanera probes,
crash-landed and crushed under
a corrosive ocean of pressure?
what about the Pioneers?
survivors of a terrible descent through sulphuric acid clouds
transmitting data across the aching void of outer space?
but instead, i smile like a fool transfixed,
the plumes of our breath dancing together
beneath the giant hunter, pulling his bow
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