The Belarusian
used chromatic aberration
to decidedly advantage an
unfeathering of spectrographs
for the surface sobbed ruffles of
the mirth with which he would flirt
 
He ascended in a gelatin balloon to watch
meteors with his friends from the Sorbonne
Sternly clutched by the puffs he was, as the
blue-gas-flame sibilated girlishly for buoyancy
‘He fell for the falling stars,’ his friends chuckled
 
But the title of his autobiography –
Sixty Years at the Telescope – would
sum up most of his days at the office
 
He extracted the spectra from leaves
Zestily, he extrapolated from them
He’d rail against mean geocentrism
 
He wrote Astrobotany and
he postulated he prospected
 
He authored – and asked too –
Is There Life on Other Planets?
 
Ogling through his Maksutov meniscus
squinting to discern pale details beyond
the charisms he practiced, what he could
 
make out were her colors, and so based on
them – and what-he-knew of earth’s plants 
he would locate a grand blue herbage garth 
 
on her – there! upon her Fallopians
just underneath her unmentionables