Cloud came no closer than that,
but I tried.
Emboldened and primate I tried.
Scurried up the elm to bring night closer.
But the limbs got thinner,
thinner there and sapling.
Shit, the stars are wounds,
and the moon’s a gaping.
And what swoons below
is a lark, a laugh and a flaking,
like skin ripped in endeavor,
like skin that is ripped with want,
ripped with gravity, like fingers,
pale with just hanging on
as the growing tip breaks
and falls into magma.