I am waiting for dragons to spit fire—though the fear
is really nothing thanks to the cushioning nimbostratus in the low atmosphere.
So I am putting blackest mascara on my calm eyelashes, listening only

to the radio peeungs that tell us something has occurred, then watching
rainbow graphs spike as each whit of the Draconid dust hits our air.
I blink my eyes to dry, and we hurtle through the meteor shower.

Some speak of an attack, though it is really our own hunk of a planet
that crashes through the dragon trail, and even then
it is only dragons because we’ve named them so from fear and constellation.

We are just bits in space, and the radiograph is the best way to feel that,
blanketed as we are by daylight and low-sailing clouds.
But oh, despite all of that they are beautiful, aren’t they,

all fire-streaks and impulsive combustion, a lesson in the drama and brevity
of make-up and us all. Furious heat, appearing hot between blinks, leaving us
with only its own after-image to aspire to. And even that fades.