there’s something to the fight. there is a fight, for
sometime. fists raised, leaves tremble in deep blood the
well of meaning, the well of fear silver in the better disclosed there
,going so far as to huddle unnamed in the Amazon drip
.cosmic rays subside.
in the face of stellar dust, your face sharp with will
,the same dust that decorates your grandmother’s bathroom
shelf. the same dust that speaks to memory. there are more
consistent ways of showing the wall than to scream.
you could build.
short fuses lit in alleyways a continent or three moons
,it no longer matters to the lesser creatures – what means
safety; what measure safety from the cut on your nose.
run now as speech explodes shallow, as ripples through
time and sea more than land, as means magic.
in one hand, she held a broken thermometer. one smooth
bubble of mercury pooling disney malignancy your space
shuttle, one flight left. your reflection in her hand
.your son poised on the top stair
and you a comedian.
the dart of mist weaves out and over, sheets of gray.
tattoed into the moment, embedded as gravel in your palm
, as glass in your elbow, the warm meaning
.there will be “no more manned flights into space,
“the announcer laughs. he just had his one too many.
staggered clips slap your atmosphere. sodden rumbles
into chest and belly, shed and attic floor. you think it’s unreal
that this space you have known, that this space should be
fist fight fight. fist
.agree to it
why your hands raised.