I feel like sunlight
straightforwardly streaming
through inviting space
but you ask me not to bend
not to look back
or look through
just keep on going
towards light years by
and don’t even think about
circle round or bathing
the gravity of your world.
But I have to ask.
When is it that sky as light,
is ever beside itself?
Well here we are,
on a park bench,
sitting as bent light familiars,
pretending to be strained
as somehow strangers.
You point out weather
that is not in my sky.
And yet I am here weathering it
as if it were a wardrobe,
a disguise for when we meet.
And I ask in sky dialogue,
“and where are we going
that we are not already there?”
Scratching my sky in wonderment,
yet seemingly sitting here,
bound by this conversing
as if we are two sky butts
parked on a bench . . .
Discussing how we matter
to each other?
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