From Above

 
The twinkly stars disinterestedly
Staring back, it tickles your thinking,
The sum of you, the multiplicated product
Of all your hysterical episodes, & function,
Fluctuated, fractal, of your moods & vacuities.
The people you've wrung out your guts for
Like the sponge end of a squeegee, that've ticked
& Tocked through a month, three months,
Six months, a year of rinse cycles,
The faces who've written their looks
Into your programming, all the undeletable,
Second-guessed significations, the gestures
Of their lips, their fingers' commands,
It leaves you spinning, dehydrating
The evening to a dusty, distant simile.
I feel like a moon, punched all over with
Old bruises, but whole, orbiting on, pressing on,
Whole.

© 2001 Trout &
Nick Ascroft