I’ll slide off your face like
an egg, slip inside a database,
an ice cream off your north
base jumped, the perfect foil.
One side like a heat wave, a
marathon runner’s pulse, the
slave to sunlight hiding drugs,
or coiled around the pit.
This far side’s cool as crisp
fridge lettuce. Breaking into
conversations like some blip
on the catastrophe as radar,
thin as paper, wedged near
perfection into domes: alone
among the shadowed stars,
helpless, tarnished chrome.
