Saw the Fly
Flying space spiders spawn.
Round webs
of cosmic time hang:
suspension in/is nowhere.
What a magical construct
catching forecasts, feathers, and fey – all the fantastical
elements needed to focus this fictionalized reality.
The third eye closes.
From this distance, it is the globe that spans;
not the perspective that spins. I worry
my fingers into wishes
(as if either actually exist),
and fill my basket with remnants
of stars. They burn
me,
myself, and I [think themselves too] out
until everything glows gray with [dis/mis]use.
Listen as the secular seconds float off
in a final[ized?] vision of the fluctuating orders
of phoenixed ash.
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