a shadow blue beam of dust
encases me;
they weave through me,
embroidering
gloomy brocades of
steel dullness.

Xe gazes numbly at xyr feet;
conveniently topping off xyr arms
shaped like a wispy orb.
Xe swipes at a purple fruit,
The fruit stands still,
and xyr hand slips through;
*Why couldn't I have been born tangible?

There's a comet in my throat
It flies too fast to see
But its friction burns
And only I can feel it

Is it a comet at all?
Or a planet shot out of orbit
By an asteroid three times its size
Hurling and screaming

Whose footsteps are these? Why
do they resemble leaves
without grooves? Have you been here
before?

Here begins a new trail. Whose feet planted
these bat wing trenches? If we follow them
long enough,
will we find a pond floating
under sleeping Mallards?