we created the beast, and now we must ride it, over
oceans, winds, even to the
moon, outer
space is fucking cold, they
tell me, though I’ve never been
but to the edge on the skin where it buckles and shivers
under a million hard points of light overhead, the wind,
seems driven less by the sun
than the friction of the flesh
than the friction of the flesh
against the void.
No comments:
Post a Comment