by Josh Pearce
The sky turns rusty
And I ask why does it do that
And he says, “oxygen”
Which yes he is right
Which why the blade of the moon is always sharp
Summer snow on the skin of the rocket
And I ask why is that
And he says, “oxygen”
Which yes he is right
Which why a cloud will soon carry him away from me
My lungs are fire every time beneath him
And I gasp why it hurts
And he says, “oxygen”
Which yes he is right
Which why I will always need him like air
I say if he loves the thrill of it so much
And I ask then why’d he even land here
And he says, “oxygen”
Which No he’s wrong
Which why the fire in my eyes,
fog in my head,
sharp blade in hand
His lips become late-harvest plums
And I ask what they taste like
And he doesn’t say
Which is he all right?
Which why he doesn’t say anything, ever after.
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