We’re a little higher than a landed aircraft
A little further down than when they let you take your seat belts off in the plane
A few sleeps from when gravity gets tire and gives up.
Aren’t there further galaxies?
And layers of atmosphere buried between two vastly different zeniths?
Or can’t we fly, walking through yellowed grass?
Our shadows climbing above our furthest imaginings?

There’s yet fog to be cleared
Summer days to rise and fall
Rockets will crash and burn miles from their destinations
With no one to clean up the dust
And yet hands can fit together like scissor handles
Bare toes curl the ground like the earth’s first wheels
******, smoke and shadow descend eyes and ears
Until we remember only as much as our skin knows the wind

We won’t remember in September, and watching idly is forgiven
But at one moment, these things meant something-
Hands in hands and feet brushing dried out growth
Waiting