your ghost blowing up globes.
tightening them off with an x-axis-esque c-clamp,
then setting them down through the clouds
onto empty department store shelves.
where they sit facing all sorts of islands
out toward dead wee-hour isles.

has the earth come loose from its galactic neck beneath you.
cut off above the clouds
gone let go from the space surround it
dropped down done to the sun system's floor
crooked pearl of the one universe
cleaved, fell rolling toward a corner of the cosmos
in the blacked and quiet of come time

"and you are all lamb, for this."

spring is at your back again
this time rare with your clarity...
while patches of you thought whole
had turned up still.
made a tar of your woe
and flesh there in

have you gone half dead...

yet...yet have you to let the worst most be
as if it were atlas to your world of cope.

and no one is out there scared
you'd set your eyes off one the ceiling all night
in the dark
think of a song or maybe breasts
or missing body parts

"without a universal law there is no gravity
without a gravity there is no atmosphere
without an atmosphere there is no chance at life
and with no chance at life...i don't exist."