Song craft

Peacebone,
you fat, diabolical rodent;
sometimes I hate you.
But your little orange cage is
all you know,
and I feel for you.

There are times
during the day when I wish
for a big, bulbous
hand to come into my room and
show me
the panorama world.

Your predicament reminds me of everything
I did today:
I was singing,
eating succulent fruit,
sucking on the sun,
swinging my frowns
up and down a steep hill
and
sluicing the sap from
effortless trees. 

Today,
life seemed too large for us to inhabit frivolously,
so we extricated ourselves from the apartment,
and dislocated ourselves from the barres of Flatland city,
we sank into the sky, bailing out of
song craft and eating mountains,
dried grass plateaus
above which Paul found a log-swing held up by
branches.
And the jam is preserved by
our short-lived
respite into collectivity.

Can you hear me?
Sundown is swamped in cloudy
misshape, and I am you for a little while,
held up in some gigantic hand, excited
by the prospect that this is
still-life. That this episode featured me
and that the sense of space
in this one is so exemplary.

Disconnected - still connected -
the whole terrarium lights up.
This isn't grisly, man, it's
not simple man vs, this is
man, via satellite.