The seasons sometimes dawdle, hesitate at the door,
run and stumble
when they’re late to catch
the Keplerian train.
Winter’s ice cracks in glasses,
spring’s choirs sing,
summer’s orchestras tune their instruments.
I do not listen.
Who shall I blame for wounds
that will never mend, for the past
that will never be my future?
My childhood wings torn out,
I have cut and glued and pinned
a balsa pair together,
but they are thin and fragile, and I am cold,
Célia reads my thoughts.
Don’t be such a
Your wings would serve no purpose
on this gravitacious planet.
She’s slightly luminous,
with ordinary teeth
—unusual for an alien—
and a range of superpowers.
What about my back story?
She piloted her hypercraft
in a slingshot round a distant
neutron star, chose a casual outfit
and landed on a nearby roof
in a beam of flocculated light.
She oscillates her hand: so so.
Let’s catch a sky train
to the southern highlands,
I’d like to tourist there.
And so we did, with my awkward
wooden wings folded in a luggage rack,
the clickety-clack of wheels on clouds,
and a little smoky steam wandering
through the carriage.
To be continued due to the arrival of unexpected guest verses. I’ll have to make a run to the bottle shop.
Aerial trains are recycled from Danta in black where they make a brief appearance.
Hyperspace (detail above)—a snap of Célia’s photon cruiser exiting hyperspace. I think. I took it with my Kodak Brownie Starmeter and it caught fire, along with my hair, but I managed to put them both out.