Soft Atlas

your ghost blowing up globes.

tightening them off with an x-axis-esque c-clamp,

then setting them down through the clouds

onto empty department store shelves.

where they sit facing all sorts of islands

out toward dead wee-hour isles.

has the earth come loose from its galactic neck beneath you.

cut off above the clouds

gone let go from the space surround it

dropped down done to the sun system's floor

crooked pearl of the one universe

cleaved, fell rolling toward a corner of the cosmos

in the blacked and quiet of come time

"and you are all lamb, for this."

spring is at your back again

this time rare with your clarity...

while patches of you thought whole

had turned up still.

made a tar of your woe

and flesh there in

have you gone half dead...

yet...yet have you to let the worst most be

as if it were atlas to your world of cope.

and no one is out there scared

you'd set your eyes off one the ceiling all night

in the dark

think of a song or maybe breasts

or missing body parts

"without a universal law there is no gravity

without a gravity there is no atmosphere

without an atmosphere there is no chance at life

and with no chance at life...i don't exist."