A LETTER TO BRITISH AEROSPACE
You were the grand directio more
than a scuffle would surely grasp this,
throughout see the weeklight
come to zero raise your hand now
and then even, and not how
grasped but how ungrasped it may
itself seem is the startup delusion.
Even-handed I see this,
the screw-up pallor off which snap trashy
no-hope codes you
snap up at the first commission to sigh,
hope too can be excellent. Though the earth
may on the daily skids tilt
as usual at nothing nothing wraps up
peace with a grosser
ribbon of pangs than this, that
the question should so slightly run
so coarse an errand, only between hope-code and no-hope,
itself smoothed and made you will it
run out or, not and
well who cares. When in New York I ran
inside, when unbusy I aspirin
too much and just run out the coked-up garment
district wow myself blaze-boy
could chewed up lights
spat stars out. To my heart streets to nowhere
together saw that slid in
and the sky was thin and everywhere magnificent,
thin faces acheless I went blurry,
you are the bar-zero you eat
everything and later it's dark. As if it
were dark, how could it ever be so, a light
lunch and the grin slots back.
They're not all like this,
I alone was the one so tremendous.
Elsewhere hope runs what a quiet
person may call its quiet course;
tottering round their igloo, now tending
the rise of an adequate fire things
we used to call esquimaux whistle.
I love you, this is a voice from zero-bar.
The codes bright, various you may run among,
this includes the fabulous sky over
and the sky made by metal rains
a running outtake, and her bright yellow
sun and cerulean stuffed with crab
apples and birdsong served up as dessert.
Were justice a code also. And whatever night
may mean, for sure it
can't be the other menu item.
I wish you could sleep by my side,
literally all of you. Then we might
wake up at the same time, we bold and each leaping
out from a doze degraded now
to habit, with fistfuls of rubber laurel.
Shrimp run through the Pacific. What is
the time now hope-rated, could run off a sparky
derision true and fireless everywhere
washes the sky back to us, the sky you hope on
which to put your foot down.
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