It’s a Bird . . . It’s a Plane . . .

It’s a barred galaxy feeling no pain.
It’s a spark caught up in a high wind howl,
the soft, silent arc of a thrown in towel.
It’s the last spring snowflake circling the drain
or a new shooting star with deadeye aim.
It’s a comet dragged by an undertow,
a lost bumbershoot flying out of frame,
an age-old nova in the here and now.
It’s Mary Poppins, it’s a drunken blur,
it’s a bright white blimp, or a botched first strike.
It’s a Chinese lantern, a firework,
a high foul tip, or a stalled satellite,
an arrow, a flare, a mild acid trip.
It is friendly fire, it’s the mother ship.

Read more from Issue 22.1.