In any other sky there is less arrogance.
You’d be enlightened to know the amount of secrets that rush to you in a blanket of
humidity. You could gulp a flood. The sky can be pretty overwhelming when you try to count the stars
and how many worlds belong to them. Named one Mikey and one Maybe. I’ve been planted in a field
outside of Chicago in the Indiana area and the mosquitoes spend the summer around
my ankles. It’s only been an hour. I may have been found.
Found out. Uncovered. I’m still here. The sky is a sweet violet. A wet plum
glistening with secrets. Who is telling?
The fireflies in concert and the crickets sing. I have fallen to tears / sipped into the dirt.
You don’t know how much you have in common with a blade of yellow grass
until the sky, as grand as a thousand sightlines finds you with a hand outstretched at one
in the morning and unbelievably coming into focus is a triangle of fire balls
or little stars or blinking bulbs?
I am so certain, my face flushes bright. The lights in a triangle move together
and I can’t tell if they are all their own satellite, or synchronized
weather balloons. But I think I know. Want to see it for myself. Want the truth
to be the truth earlier. Want to know.
The triangle of lights near. Only move directly north and south and east and west. Quickly
without sound. A secret. I wave my hands
to communicate, I’m alive. See me. Want the truth to be the truth earlier. Want to know.
What is that? I see the lights are all attached to the same craft. And there’s windows, I’m sure of it, and
moving figures. They mirror me. My hands are waving like a flare. I hear a hovering nothing. My heart
is pulsing racket. At one point, I should’ve known. Have no doubt
how small I am. Un-earthing.
What is that?
What is that? What is that?
What is that? What is that?
And by now it is so close
I am certain.
Someone believes
I exist, knows
I exist.