Adam O. Davis Astronauts

Astronauts



Night: incumbent.

The sky looks like


a taxidermy of

a sky I once knew.


Hours earlier I

swallowed an


anagram for harm

as if I were nothing


more than a broken

thing that forests


rot. Now a hive,

I hum as a hidden


wilderness heats my

blood. The horizon


is a red memory

of light. Come, newly


polished world, and

break these hands.


Back to 48.2