Should it still be so
razor-edged & wondrous to see the sacrificial hordes of little men who tarp the sky carve
vertical welts through the atmosphere, climbing up each gangly axon of ladder, moving—from
what I can see at my post—so diligently at first and then slowing, almost to a stall, seeming
to dangle in the air, the near-shorn coat of an overgrown sheep swung just below the belly,
attached by a few strong deluded fibers, or caught in the tropopause, perhaps on a
malfunctioning glass elevator, gears flooded—
Thankfully, it’s all relative
at my computer screen I zoom and see their legs, half trapeze artists, half electricians, flexing
so furiously upwards, I can near see the blood-spectres plucking their heels, un-see their backs
turtled with the government-issued tools to blow out the circuits. I crunch numbers and recede
into the final blue, preparing for each man to reach his Pinnacle, preparing to be awash with
the same diffusive surprise that pierces the sky: a languorous explosion of color, the cheeks
warm with guilt, caught, yellow laughter fat in the mouth, sluicing into the beard
Possibly the whole earth
hyperventilates, averts her gaze from these maneuvers, lets it all unfold above her, cumulus.
I want to shout these are your men! and make her kiss each sweaty forehead, each eye
planted in its devout rubber mass of skin, but even in the end, rapturous decorum must be
maintained: my uniform, its badges winking to no one, will stay buttoned to my neck, soon
to be melded into my skin, long after the last man tessellates into place and dissolves. May
those who follow note: I guard the button ready to transmit the go ahead & it’s my finger,
so sure of the command, which trembles with breath—corporeal, sinewy, almost prayer
and what will be left of you? your Eyes! great, gleaming crystal
gophers migrating with the dark
2025