the sky is not a good place for careful observation

it is difficult to see the native americans
at this altitude. they are pinpricks over the landscape
i think or else those are cars. it is difficult to see
a four-leaf clover without looking closely.

all of the sweet peas gather under a full moon; their light
limbless, balled into sweating fury. or else
those are trees, i don’t have water up here.
i keep my sweat in a bottle for hot days.

i have an art collection in my balloon. i have seen civilizations
pass and painted them in blood and water. War is not paint
and tiny brushstrokes; i don’t have paint up here.
“what do you do when you have to go to the bathroom?”

the passengers are dumb. i don’t go to the ground
for them anymore. i am well-stocked with lavender pebbles,
sour peaches and potatoes. i don’t need to see history
closely. i don’t need to see your face up close

to remember the boring fizz of love. my eyes sting
from dry air, not realization or tears, asshole.
i wonder how the alphabet has changed since i last
used it. i wonder if slurpees are called something different

now. it is difficult to know my mind without other minds
knocking into it. there are birds. i miss the native americans.
i miss your bald expressions. i miss mirrors. i miss time
will open up into me, blankly, without passing.