postcards from vacuums of delight

night stoops black/blue like falcons, like Superman's hair

smashing doves from the forest sky

the ashtray is your snout

you thing of clay and fire

would you like one of these tablets?

your leg is an oak tree trembling

your back is some sort of ocean fret

your hair is a vast spider taking off

never to

feel again the launch

of our shuttle and shuffle

our shining catch at morning

my best friend

the time weaves on

I am cutting our cords

you and me rise over the hedgerows

caught in sudden lifts, wet

caught bright like stars, scraps of web

that drift apart in the early dawn

you worry that I am a spaceman sent outside

drifting off open-mouthed into the endless empty blue

maybe I am

I will try not to be

but I can't help sending back

signals

from these new strange worlds

wish you were here

.