And another thing I didn’t say

that the downward spikes of the sun’s boxed rays

will usually temporarily replace

the climate of an average human being’s face

so that if your arrival is precise

and timely, your aspect fair, and you’ve surmised

the first few rules of pitch

and roll, you’ll navigate an empty patch

of land, plant two yellow pennants, launch

a flare that dies in painted cirrus, inch

towards a glass that’s clean, a shell

that’s lodged in air. Next time I’ll tell

you more about the bench; the wooden ball.

This much is truth for now. That’s all.



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