Cloud rider, falling from the sky
harder than a nuclear sunset,
have you measured your wings?
Could you tell me off the top of your head?
Flying on selenite
is a pretty way to die,
to become that radial fossil
in the hill of red shale
that my hypothetical future children will handle
and of which they’ll say:
“What a strange number of legs”
and “You don’t see those anymore.”
You. Lost, downside up in a rotating
that used to be pins:
strike me with lightning
and find we’re karmically linked
–reincarnations, though I dare not
say who came first.
Find we’re the same fucking mirror
reflecting a common and unidentified
third party with a distasteful mustache.
He tips his hat. We almost fall.
There is thunder.