Flying Fish

underbelly of
the sky is blue,
with evening bruises
deepening in hue.
Then rolling over, beached, its stars ignite in sands of back-lit quartz and topaz light.
How supple is the whale in heaven’s cup, where comets leave their tail and space collides;
when morning slips below, it dives back up, exposing earth again to undersides.
Now, here am I, drawn up into the deep. Will space make room for me, like
flying fish? When airborne
from the nebula
of sleep,
is earth
an eye,
an urchin,
or a dish?
I’ll backstroke
through the sea
of constellations
arranging Cancer
into new crustaceans,
skip rippling rings ’round
Saturn (banked off Mars) while
swimming out to Pluto
through the stars


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