Here we stand in the sky

feet planted on Calliope notes.
Hands reaching for the
 that e x p l o d e and then
                    drift as if 
            trade winds 
of time or space or
                    hand of dark 
                                  matter is
dragging lighter fluid 
            through the hot
 wet paint of creation.
We could have shattered
          a crystalline skylight and
used one of the shards
as a pallette knife to slice
mushroom spore frozen in the river 
that survived the journey. Were
our lives for nothing?
             Or is it
maybe just always 
this way?
It is impossible to be breathing the air
without the air impossibly breathing