There is a blue sky across the street from the end of the world
a sky without center or capitol
even the birds have deserted the horizon
birds know better
only a rocket dares reach toward the eternal without consideration of heaven.
On the flipside of sky is a clean chalkboard
its calculus of sticky, webbed stars
its expanse too dark to dream in—too cold for love –
yet you thirst for the empty eternity of it
have you done and understood everything of the world
that you must now reach past it on a tower of babbling cotton?
From this field, your tiny splinter
its needle sewing sky to earth—quilting a spinal
column of hot gasses;
Not a gift unless an occupied bullet is a gift…
its microdose gift of aluminum, steel, titanium; its invasive touch and footprints–
What do we pray for now? We are so pretty
belonging somewhere between earth and sky
the sun nipping at our colors of papaya, pineapple, guava
We stand grounded satisfied, knowing
that love stays here with us- the gift of gravity, its covenant and comfort
is ours.
The Dirty Rat 