Too hot to grab
it bounces
a spatial streaker
from settee to carpet
and wobbles under the computer
sighs
falls (yet again)
through a space
and goes into a deep deep sleep
utterly exhausted.
A Qantas departure
roars over power lines
the hole in the roof
over stacks of homes
pockets of carbon
premature symptoms of bodily unrest.
The stone as it is where it is
in black shining armour
too star-jammed to move
too friction-scorched
cracks perceptibly
along its north polar face
pouting folding
as if shaping to speak.
I stroke it like a dog and
you stroke it like a cat. We
have started its canonization
to give it the status of flesh already.