The jagged lines in the blueprint
of your experimental force field
are creeping imaginary things moving
across state lines to be with me.
That which you had sent out like a shield
has become a net.

The spaceman flying through the forcefield
gets a coat of metal covering his pores,
and can only smash it off
by crashing into your door.
And by never flying through the forcefield,
since it doesn't actually exist.

The blueprint of your experimental force field
lies atop a bouquet of burning candles
whose hot white brains are starting to show
through the paper. There's no meat heart,
but the air inside a clenched hand;
no mere familiar function, but a starfish
made of darkness in your vulnerable
hallways of hours.

The spaceman flying through your forcefield
is trying to get up from where he crashed
through the roof of an indoor basketball court;
he is trying to peel himself like a dark starfish
off the wall of a local restaurant.
He's trying to stop the barnyard blades
to hear your helicopter music
through a labyrinthine ceiling.