Flying high our years, our senses of Self, stitched with dermis,
are a fabric of synapses— electric,
flapping in the August wind  like our shirts and the loose
upholstery of your passenger seat.
Full speed at eighty in a sixty
under gauzy clouds and a waning moon,
my fingers feel the air like water
and we are empty, wafting
above the warm earth before us  and
grasping at what we have and have not.
As the sky begins to lighten,
and another day, another dose of entropy
adds to the wear on our threadbare lives,
I try to remember our molecules—an ocean
that knows not of time, but only of perpetual motion.