They read me more than I could read them,
Prickly balls from this high.
They are dust bunnies hidden in the overcast,
Waving in every direction
Because I don't know where I'll land
The next time around.
Not everything shines at night.
There are runways for guidance
And guardrails for flight,
Clutching arms extended
From the elbows to the finger tips
To the edge of my tongue.
They calm the numbers spoken under the light,
Specific pacific, but the same 405.
No comments:
Post a Comment