we the masters

of the heated thermals — rising
lifting in the swell
headed south like geese unspooled
unlooosed upon a slough of icebergs

how tall is a dark sky city?

searchlights illuminate the falling snow
no auroras just cracks in the ice
cracks in the ice cracks in the ice — cracks

3am a flat hissing noise
a strange hiatus as giant wind turbines slow

then stop
a breakdown in reciprocity

you suspected it when you saw the foothills
you were certain when you saw the distant mountain ridges

light gray upon white hard to distinguish
sea from sky — there it is
a margin no bigger no longer
than what it reminds us of
it doesnt surprise us what we are
what we’ve become

we are not beautiful objects of contemplation

this is all like a dusty sun bleached diorama
we contain nothing but shadows —
and our shadows are long

What I’m Reading:

Sometimes misadventures are the best adventures. Sometimes a tent is a room of one’s own. And sometimes you don’t know what to do but you do the best you can.

— Laura Killingbeck / “Life in the Yard”