Or Rejecting Trajectory
Let the night leak in, and distant fog from lamp’s yellow gaze... chemical smoke, and history, green the dark. Maybe cold can save me from drowning among blood-warmed black drapes, whisperless and listing. Far-off, like wishes, my bones walk in moon grit and the echoed twittering of disturbed birds. I’m still wondering how I got here, like every comet, looking back at its brushed-light tail.