Document spire unwinding spiral unending
loops around palms around countless hands.
surgical tools, the weapons of angels
all the usual suspects.
Gardens, lighthouses and lawn furniture,
mist gathers in the eaves and corners,
another wordless mumble. All the voices
clattering like a tramwire trainwreck
you are over this, you are the past.
Calamity drops in between the seconds of daily in-terference,
the space between worlds unfold and you are on a fraction
over a moment too late, too unsure, and who knows
maybe all the mongrels escaped,
adapted to vacuum
and now they all play fetch on the moon.
So when you fell out of the sky,
it was natural we were going to question
Now I assume all dogs long for space,
their eyes search clouds for hidden Mars,
and with every dreaming twitch
chase comets over fields of stars.