It's cold in the yard. I don't know where to start. Everything is
already tattooed somewhere. The real world doesn't want us in it.
Everyone else knows how to swim, but how could you drown us?
Bouyed by the wrath, and the air is thin, there's some halt in the
way that things seem to work here
the sun’s radiance reaches us in eight minutes but given its age/given the ever expanding nature of the universe somewhere, 4.5 billion light years away its solar winds are breathing fire for the first time/ its flares dancing through the dark to awaken the worlds at their birth. is our being this buoyant? is some celestial observer watching us through a series of glass lenses and mirrors, jotting down notes of years ago/maybe of his flight across the country from the the place he called home to the place i’ve always called home? if so, on what star, on what rock, does his life still shine? i’ve been tinkering with lead pipes and gunpowder/aluminum frames, fein saws and soldering irons/ steel. a fishbowl from the attic my astronaut’s helmet/ winter gloves, snow boots and overalls over a wetsuit to stave off the cold/a notebook of his thoughts to stave off the loneliness; infinity isn’t anything until you are among the stars searching for something you lost. let us hope that the duct tape holds/ and my misguided science and memories of his crooked coffee-stained smile can lead me to a world where his light still illuminates the days.
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