Hubble

You, sweet silver Jack-in-the-Box, you're an overgrown
Tinker Toy, a teaspoon lost in space. Your limbs are spindly hubris,
your very organs vanity. But oh,

Oh, oh, oh, oh. Oh. Oh. There's something in those vacant curves
that makes poets of press agents. Dry text
in the Science pages veers

into babble of cauldrons. One man mentioned emerald fire.
Hubble, dear lady, be gentle. We were naked before you
before you ever left Earth.