First Contact

I man the galley, rapt in radio waves,
while heaps of chairs become the mothership
carrying the chosen over vast-space distances.

New to this world, still wreathed in galaxies,
de-briefed imperfectly about our ways
they dress in tutus, top hats, giant high-heeled shoes,

take registers: check off the unseen with the seen
glimpse through nebulae of generations,
speak to the invisible, name their names,

know with utter sureness this small room
is centre of the universe, which all the stars
rotate around in perfect order.