I Am Not a SatelliteI am the master of weather patterns, so I worry ![]() about critical mass. I squash safe zones and erupt ![]() and sing so hard I flood the sandbox. When I eclipse, ![]() I am miniature and unworldly. I sit real close to exits. ![]() I prepare for ugly feelings and emerge a collapsed planet. ![]() In three of the twelve hours of the night, I hold my breath like a thermostat ![]() while somewhere else kites are lightning struck and I'm not. ![]() I'm a tiny expanding bulb and I do not orbit. I keep this cloud alive. ![]() Now my arms are long. I will float down from here. I will cling to notions ![]() of small-time magic, swell my thermal scale. When the skies snap, ![]() I'll squawk how I love reversal. I'll swing from my cupola like a fat, proud continent. |
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