I am a fugue of balloons in motion. A helicopter ride skirting the stratosphere. From up here I can see your house. It looks like a blooey.
That noise, the tiles crashing from your roof. That was us, buzzing your house. Stand in your garden and wave. We won’t hurt you.
The deepest note ever generated in the cosmos is on its way home. Heaven cannot help you now. You need both feet on the ground. Watch out for our blades, they’ll crop you closer than most.
We fly against the weather. We chin back, take deep sips and grit ourselves down for the rest of the ride. From up here I can see your house. It looks like a blooey.
Your kitchen rattles. It’s not us. We are caught, crossing, a dot of spin in the wind. On your street the women are clutching their crockery. While you are reaching out for plates. Soft landings won’t help you now.
This is handicap. Your house is a blooey while we are smeared paste on the red horizon. Your street has bent its lampposts, curled its pipes, betrayed its stone. If there is anyone out there they’ll be thinking themselves lucky.