We shouldn’t fix the moon with our hands
shouldn’t get the young thing all mixed
up, with maths;
but hell, there’s a pile of mist outside
someone said they’d employ me and
the night is a good pulse

it’s the same size as a bull dog swallowing
an organic digital
song

within jaw, distilled to adjust
within words and shades;
they have been launched and no longer ask
to ever-

come back.