Adam O. Davis 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.

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