Polycyclic Aromatic Hydrocarbons

Back on a gibbous, glitchy kind of morning,
Mostly bright but off-center, incomplete,
And just a bit skew-whiff in all it did,

The kind of day on which a novelist might
Set out to write another novel, might set
The opening chapter of that novel,

Near dark, on a grey day in early spring,
Might have been March, the Worm Moon setting
In the pines of the desert subdivision,

Or maybe April's Flower Moon rising in same,
A protagonist or unreliable narrator setting
Out to work, mow the lawn, seek fortune,

Find physical pleasure, happiness, God,
Identity, meaning, escape from novels
And novelists. And then, there it was, news

Delivered by the mechanisms of the era,
Vetted by the gatekeepers of the given
Society our whatever inhabits, space

Scientists reporting the presence of types
Of chemicals in the spectra of light, stars,
Dust, comets, or outer planetary moons

Necessary for life. It was the June kind of day
Technology that usually worked stuttered,
When opportunities to flee frittered away.