How close the sky must have felt.
Sun spread flat at his feet, shoveling
up sparks that burned small stars
into his skin, making a nest in his
lungs. & how he must have craved
what the gods crave: a brief respite
from fueling the machinery fueling
the wars fueling the intimacies born
of seeing the world for what it is.
How I imagine him flush & fully lit,
like meat glistening from old hooks,
like a constellation tearing into that
greater darkness. As his sky slowly
buckled at the knees. As the clamor
& cry of trains swept strangers no
closer or further from home. Even
as he carried that collapsed heaven
home to us every night in balled up
fists, how I imagine helping shave
off those black bits of lung to hear,
finally, what gods once sang about.