I Dream of the Rings of Saturn

by Noah Hickman

In the first ring, televisions
watch themselves spin,
the vacuum holding its breath. The black
full of a whisper.
In the second – you, your pink
dress parasoled out, your lips moving
as if to say, oh, the dark
tells me to dance, as if you could resist. 
Your arms curve above your head
to stop your hair from floating
in arcs and blooms to Titan.
In the third, my arms flail:
can you drown in all this ice?
In the fourth, a lawn chair,
pink and green, careening
in improbable leisure. 
In the fifth, a mirror, turning
back on the ridiculous chair 
and myself
drifting toward the chair
or perhaps to show me
orbiting you, 
the chair abandoned, 
like it always should have been.