There’s this white twine smell. Wine settled
into pools on each step. The reflected ceiling
keeps on dipping from the moisture.
They won’t replace the soot-stained toilet.
When I was ten we ran out in the rain,
covering the sewer grates with rocks,
trying to make this little town float away.
The comet settled in the sky above the hospital
(plucking the string noislessly with my finger)
for three buoyant nights.
We turned ‘perihelion’ into a verb,
did the little Icarus trick,
found everyone to be made of the stuff.