One flaw led to matter led to water led to here. Clubhouse clouds
dissemble after-hours, athletic ocean tides head out returning later, high.
Gains begin with rain swole on atmosphere, turn into hailstones who
evaporate and steal away. Earth rolls its blue eye, reaches for a contract
for another league of days. And the moon signs the sun’s name.
Today, eight billion thumbs all press the scale as one, each index
fingernail a spike in the ball causing us to curve down and away.
Signals, like constellations in a city night, we’ve learned
but cannot see. Underneath streetlamps throwing artificial light,
snowfall hangs like asterisks expressing their concern.
Eric Roy is the author of All Small Planes (Lily Poetry, 2021) whose writing concerns the ongoing opioid crisis. Recent poems appear or are forthcoming at Bennington Review, Fence, Ploughshares, and elsewhere.