Private drive with its dense camellias,
a doorway of golden light that’s always
just a ways on. Dusk, across wet grass to
memory’s dilapidated house,
its rummaging ghosts. And beyond, the
tethered ship, its scintillating rudder
and low rumble. The pilot sings. Suit up.
Distant sirens, somebody down, but you,
you’re off, the city plummets to nothing,
you’re deep inside a sky full of stars.
This ancient scrap
just tinder for life’s roar
inside your head the freeway
guns patrol, no need to scour
the world for portents.
So much you find protects
indifferently, your own undoing
everything you loved.
Who would have thought
what’s left could have such drive,
to pace the house and disregard
each frantic missive,
the tyranny of what goes on
when you’re not there.
So caught off guard,
by this flagging imposter,
this figment, this