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.