They circle and buzz around you,
these others you don’t touch.
You’re told to stay in your circuit
and cache yourself in your niche;
catch yourself on the precipice
of your words, before they speak
of landings.

Because that would mean collisions—
or so you’re told.
Descent and burning,
the pain of gravity and magnetic poles.

You wait, as the rings of Saturn
close around you. Rocks and noise
circumambulate your skull.
Inside, its atmosphere rains diamonds
while life sleeps under your icy tongue.

You can’t seem to leave orbit;
can’t break the pull of these planets
keeping you in line.
Parallel lines, parallel play.
Somewhere, once,
there was night and day
a sense of inhabiting something
that had air and water in all its forms

and bodies taking it all in,
touching things

spreading colors and wings
making life

© Psyche Marks 2019

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