Cosmology
Before the sky was many
names of forgiveness, blue
an antidote for fire, and rest
a comet way up there,
our contrails could already be seen.
The gone a plane is. Somewhere
beyond us and sacrimonious, too.
We counted backwards, sucking
down the sweet stuff as hard
as we could, knowing the next
thing a dark skin-blink,
a flatline punctuating black,
a crumbly dust of bees.
Cinders all, platonic stars
fairly dancing at the wake of us.
Forgiveness flying like saucers
no one believes in anyway.
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