to a better history. aura off-centre, i have no say
about species or constellations, only homemade
osmotic gladness and wafts from alien breezes,
the better to witness the unpractised sweet comedy
of an unmoored you blowing steepled flecks
into nothing. good, now there’s an ongoing you
who performs brilliant arcs in secret weightlessness.
someday we’ll form a cult, lowercase
you and i. our notoriety will gallop over fields!
we’ll tell ourselves we’re happy, even
as we dissolve into the wilderness of my voice.
