Even in hindsight, you stray into
a peep show mob, ponder about
the eternal vertical axis of stray
thoughts and say, “Sleep, iha.”
Child, we make upon the stars a
muddy field of peasant dreams–
pantomime thoughts sold on the
arms of misshapen circumstance.
Tell the angels of your misfortune,
tell the demons of your innocence.
Neither shall send for you, yet both
will wait for your return from death.
Falling, falling from the sky, there
lies a chiasm of wills and no defeat.