Piles and piles of night

sky after earth's gone to ash

wafting past a moth background.

Rain from the ships

gone over dry sand

descending into puddles

as they disassemble

on their crater-hidden carrier.

My seat in the bronze bubble

where I pray to the gleam of a knife

knowing.

Picking out the ripped actor

in a beam from above

the seared shore

and a coughing weasel.

Files where the faceless names

are always kept

in hinges getting wet.

The spear's tip

is an eye.

Split hair

of a bomb's making

so combed into the ordered fray.