Incorporeal
The universe is cracking.
Shards of fractured gravity
plunge from the torn
lips of the sky into
my dreaming mouth;
I’m woken choking
on stars stabbing
my throat and
expelling crackling
noise; they’re screaming
for help
that disintegrates.
Stepping out of bed,
I push open the window,
hoping midnight air
will allow me to breathe
but behind cold glass,
the moon has risen:
a beady begging eye, quickly,
my hands draw the
curtains and flounder.
I’m a coward to turn away
from the cosmos, I collapse
back into bed.
Remnants of embers,
celestial, blister
my tongue. So adverse
to facing the sky,
I’m frozen
by astral disquietudes
piling their endless edges
onto my shoulders.
My hands draw
the covers up
over my head.
I close my eyes
to the horror
and the beauty.