You’ll know your sky by the harmonograms it sends when in Aluminium Ages long past one astronaut already feels like a new adam and nothing is unchanged, so I too adore flirting from dirigibles—adore it like a sentimentalist and jauntily, having been wherever and still these lifetimes arrive by gapeworm, the receiving cosmosphere gone all white with wattage and snoozing upon snowdrifts, my milksick craniograph for example, stands still above a ghost-cloud, hobnobbing with retro-rockets, upcaught in outbound counter-thwarting traffic.
One day is serious, the next a fish in ruins, this egg’s to win the inventor’s love. Cold, and flown on steam engines upward I would, all my clouds at their best and the wrong tense like boom and stumble in heavy shoes, mere surface-farcical. Night. Good-night, then poised in air, zeppelins, the motorway spilled with icy dunnage, day an exploding boiler and me the janitor, o hysteria. The sky’s a sponge and joistless too, kissingly wet and slaughterous.