People are looking up again. There are times where
it's dark enough to separate the sky from the not-sky,
if only for a second. From here, Mars could very well
be the tip of a lit cigarette. (My grandmother, sitting
in her chair in the living room, smoking.) I am not
sure of many things. I am not sure how to separate
the sky from the not-sky. I am not sure about the
loss of one thing turning into the not-loss of another.
Loss is loss. Rust is rust. My favorite color, stretched
across a whole planet. Goodness, just look at us—
looking.