From the western most window
a cosmic buzzing bleeds through.
August air, thick as silence, coats our
tongues. Satellite like a salamander in outer
space waggles fervently, chasing her own tail.
Meanwhile Universe, that crumbly saltine cracker
is night-air-stale and nothing but blackness
save for tiny perforations becoming
I listen close. A buzzing grows in urgency,
threatening to abandon homogeneity with a throb,
off kilter, that can only mean falling.
Falling, but also a denial of falling—
clinging to the cosmos— an
Satellite digs her heals like a top spinning
to one side, knocking herself on the floor:
a prayer to be upright.
By the time we are outside,
she’s spun out of orbit and, reaching
for herself, falls for the lake like a wave
when it breaks…