My furthest outside
Is the skin of a sunbeam. Not giving off
Enough light to warm the moon.
The darkness
Around the angles
Of a street lamp
Is the marrow
In my glass jaw. My smile is shining
From the dawn’s horizon on the other side
Of a bus stop.
The silhouetted skyline is in between
The cold of dark
And cold of light
In the icy blue skeleton driver
At the top of the steps.
I pay my fare with the skin
From the shedding sunrise. It falls
As a feather into his bony hands,
Cupped then clasped until the shaft
Is snapped in half and the time I’ve spent
Waiting for the bus to take me home bleeds
From the broken quill.
From the back of the bus I can see
The building’s window on the ground floor,
Where Muse is on the sill, looking
Into her reflection for the last time.
She says “The past is pain.
I can fit all of it in my spine,
Where all of my out-of-body experiences are.
Space shore is in there, too, the Ship
I’ll fly to when I’m done looking
At myself. It’s up there, east,
Over my shoulder.
The Sun Ship of space fits in
My pain, where the quill is bleeding
And the bus is leaving. An open space
For the ink to bleed in, as the bus