I am a heavy bug who flies still, impossibly
flapping at the sky. Me, feathering outward,
a wound surrounding a womb.

I’m lasting, like light of summer. Me, seen
through synthesis. Me, sea-glass
refracting even in trenches.

If I am a voice,
and also its distance,

I am alone,
must grow, must own.

A heart that goes forever
living outside the body
is more lingering
as its breaths start leaving
and its breasts start heaving
and there are explosions
but muffled, bleated.

If hearts get high enough
they see stupid, things
in the clouds, low
and slow, sugar
and milked

the wispy ones
way up top,
seeing strange

Sweet, bitter.

All weird ways to say,
it’s weird you don’t stay.