The moon as a field of headstones placed before
The Flocks of marrow,
Silver tipped 737 searching cloud covers
for the ghosts responsible.
A Grand Opening
Store has a spotlight spearing the night as high
As I can imagine air goes before it
Is space
And I trace the distance through the windshield, hoping everyone
Sees such blasphemy because maybe
We can all finally breathe, counting how many steps
it takes to leave