#12

In a peapod supernova, your eye bursts
in a swolen firecracker of light.

Under the teardrop of your fingertip,
a blood globe of gyroscopes.

In a tooth-sized vial, the floating
air of heart-cloud.

Inside, the airplane flies as if
tied with floss to the radio tower.

From the passenger seat, the dizzying
sway of the sights, the mountains.

A twitch, a song, and it all circles back,
an echo, a dive, and lifting.