You listened as droplets formed this
slow bow towards the east,
sunrise on a roof.
The first of many motels. “Take flight,”
sing the adolescent clouds as the
chug of the train deepens. I’m
writing this reverently, 100 mph.
The stratosphere extends its gleaming
hand, a hearth, white wisps of stark
thickening the rind of sky.
“Finders keepers,” they whisper
in each other’s ears
since words engraved no longer hold
by westerly headed, blinded by
particulars I guess
was what was
meant by words, and the sky, a nest
of specific action. O clouds! You motor,
I’d say you hold
in order, the video footage
to prove we stood on the moon
and not a paper balloon
we play it back over and over, watch the heavy white
boots move up and down
ponderous enunciation of success
Turn the telly off now. Go out, look up
at the marvelous mindblowing
sailing by of wind, pushing birds right off
the page, swirling insects about so
they smack your face like a little racquet of nails.
And as the court expands to fill
the space allotted, prepare
for the delivery of glass, clear-
sheeted, precisely angled to
light the objects seen through it. I
will find myself standing at the other end
of the apparatus, hands poised
for applause, tasting the graying air.