along the arm
that spilled the silvery-blue motes
over the meridian,
there are lightning scars
like the ones you see in the tree line
or the blood in your fingertips—silhouttes
of mathematician laughter.
the arm sweeps over the firmament:
it is a caress so sweet and slow
that we hardly ever notice it. and,
as if asleep beside a lover,
you dream of fossil fuels
powering rockets
to the moon.
Last updated on 10-Oct-2026.