Europa Poem by Dorothy Featherstone Porter

No wonder you love
Europa.

You will never crack
the crust
of this blinding ice moon
and dredge its slush.

If its thin cold air
could ever fizz
in brave human lungs
you would still be the last
to breathe it.

You're happy
for Europa
to stay in its remote orbit
showering down
the odd twinkling tick
to squat in your skin.

So much easier
to scratch its itch
and laze
in enigma

than love
and render to
the drunk woman
in blinding distress
dirtying your street.