Call to me, plugged and
Quivering as I am.
I’m yours, your
Scatterling. I’m a full–thrust and heaving
Creak of outer–skin.
It’s my fuselage that drums; a bent twist and yank at the entry.
You steer — you always have and I’m
Peppered with dirt from the
Last world, the
Lost world — we’ve just left it and already it doesn’t exist.
I’ve dropped from the black float
Here is the fall,
Terminal and swift. It shakes my bolts, tapping threads to unwinding
Though everything is bending deep, like a blind trip into
A forever of
Nothing more until we hit dirt and I
To the loam.