This one, who ticks like a bomb,
bites the world into decimals
even though everyone goes.

His altitude is perfect;
oblivion widens
in the wake of his footsteps.
Before him, tools of industry
nail down eternity
into suburban forests.

Look how he goes
with geometric blueprints
of a shrunken world
wrinkled in his fist.
He cultivates his life
like his front lawn.
Look , after him, earth
is eaten by the darkness
of his imagination.

This one, who threads
horizons with electric light;
invents alphabets at the drop of a hat,
erasing memory into a sea of anxiety.
Look how the kiss of love
mushrooms above his head
into a red hydrogen cloud.

And there is no mistake
when he arrives at the end
of a forgotten phrase,
connecting what remains,

connecting what remains.