As though they would exhale
cabin air, the valkyries
of the future,
which continues to shrink,
distill until you begin
to doubt it is there at all.
An angle against the sun
to mark time; the sun
just a lousy orange, a porthole
into the place you were
promised. At
last, there’s nothing
out in space at all—
its limits irrelevant as is
longing flapping like a carp
on the cratered surface
of some aptly named moon.
Names deflate in space,
crumple into fists, each one
raised against the joke
of the air, just a skin
like any other skin, hiding
nothing, certain of its
own boundaries, the atmosphere
crushing in is more
than you could imagine.
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