The timer on the bomb, 
the digits strutting to the outer parts of the atmosphere.
Crippled balance,
tangential distractions abstracting the parallel walk, the way they interfere.

The ache right below a sharp collar bone, 
Mistaken for the invisibility it's shying behind.
The small shadow in the afternoon sun,
And the absence of stir in the dumpsters of local satellites.

The way the small hellos obscure
the newborn volcanoes tossing venom on the riverside.
Telepathic interventions to the moon,
A friend indeed, when aspiration super-saturates the earth borderlines. 

So what if each arm desires to embrace both corners of the sky,
to publish each entry of the dreamy cerebral residents.
So what if I'm dying to learn of every curve of the universe,
and finally decide if I could finally land in a dimension of interest.