the morning star i see glistening in
trapped condensation between loose panes,
glimpsed through a sliver of lace,
is no angel falling over
london city,
just an aeroplane, and the silence of
people kicking and screaming
their way home from dreamier locations,
lisbon, or somewhere
the sun is already awake. they too are
weighted with clouds, pillows pressed across their faces.
in space, all our eyelids are
feather light, we breathe comets,
my lunar skull suspended
between this world and the eternal
dawn. this is how i fall asleep.