“We have long been at the inflection point
where the meta becomes something real and lived in —
a poem you will never know
a mere letter
stuck in the throat
trying to sneak a glimpse of
the outside world through
cantilever beams of light coming through
windows of devotion.”
Saturn looks up, having heard a noise —
it’s Orson Welles setting up the camera
for some sort of documentary.
He seems to be testing out the sound.
The bodies of his young run away,
skip over a whirlpool of ‘Fitter … happier …,’
setting off for a land that lands, like a plane
that was always already its own carpet.