Minute+Made

sit on the roof of your house.
stare vacantly at the gouged sockets
blood dribbles upwards.
cars act as cells traveling through capillaries/
aging wrinkles gape upwards from the cement.

below the cement lie
trillions of grains of sand, dust,
dirt, debris,
earth that's been traversed for
years upon years with centuries to
claim to have lived through.

sit on your roof and see
and deep inside this endless
row of palm trees and houses
and buildings and highways/
contained within a sphere that
hovers upon seemingly nothing
swinging by an invisible string
this language calls gravity.

time means nothing to
the tiny bodies of matter
waiting patiently and
quietly, far beneath our feet.

they ponder why the
surface dwellers whine
so much.

all the while, far above
clouds feel the prying eyes
of the many voyeurs,
some thinking of the others.