Under the willows, under the stained glass.
Under the squabbling airplanes, under their exhaust.
Under the meteor & the meteor’s shadow
there is an inevitable shifting of perspectives.
Where I would once dig in my pockets
for a piece of foil so I could safely view
the sun’s reflection, I now grit my teeth & stare.
The wisps & sparkles are true as the hole
burned in the field, a black ring of grass.
It’s nearly impossible that we are alone,
if we believe in the mathematics,
which regards our belief as the ocean regards
the scuba diver with his foot caught in a crevice.
I believe in visitation, the right of all denizens
to plant their words in a foreign pasture.
Even now they come unbidden to me:
What is it you do, exactly?
Does that pay the bills?