Downstairs in the kitchen
Stars are great wheels in a machine sky.
Heaven is above in the metal dome.
You pour yourself a cup of Water.
The glass feels like it will crack when the faucet jet hits the bottom.
There’s a little porch outside the door in the kitchen.
It looks over your backyard
Before the view drops off, the machine’s domain takes over.
You are wired to feel like this.
At this hour, the signal always goes off.
Your water freezes in its cup
And the glass cracks.
Kid sitting at the edge of a dock.
Legs swinging in free fall.
Wood scrapes into his hands.
He thinks that the stars can talk to him.
Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
There was a collapsed star.
There was light at the very end of a cave.
There was lightning that struck a tree.
There was a baby born
With a slightly bigger skull, one day.
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