it is difficult for the native americans to see me
at this altitude. i am a pinprick over the airscape
i think or else i am a little european car. it is difficult for a
four-leaf clover to see me without eyes.
all of the sweet peas gather under a full moon; their light
limbless, balled into sweating fury. or else
those are trees, i don’t have water bottles up here.
i keep my sweat in the clouds for hot days.
i have an art collection in my basket. i have seen civilizations
pass and painted them in nitrogen and oxygen. War is not paint
and tiny brushstrokes; i don’t have paint up here.
“what do you do when you have to go to the bathroom?”
the passengers are dumb. i don’t take them to the ground
anymore. they are well-armed with lavender pebbles,
sour peaches and potatoes. they don’t need to see history
closely. they don’t need to see each other's faces up close
to remember the boring fizz of love. their eyes sting
from dry air, not realization or tears, assholes.
i wonder how the alphabet has changed since they last
used it. i wonder if slurpees are called something different
now. it is difficult to know their minds without other minds
knocking into them. there are birds. they miss the native americans.
they miss bald expressions. they miss mirrors. they miss time
will open up into them, blankly, without passing.
