When shit happens, pull yourself up
by the hot air balloons you keep on call
in your mind.  Let them rise above lobe
& skull, head for troposphere’s auburn glow,
stratosphere’s cobalt, mesosphere’s cyan,
the deepening purples of thermosphere
& exosphere, until you hit that black
opaled with the remains of stars.  

Then drift in solar winds.  When your eyes
tire of caressing the roiling red of sun
& striped yellow of Jupiter, kiss starlight
Goodnight, wish it a good morrow & descend
until you brush the tips of oak & pine, bask
in the blush-petals of magnolia, & finally
crash into the moss beneath, come to rest
among earthworms shifting loam.  

Afterwards how shall you speak of your journey?  Wear
sparkling nebulas around your neck like a diamond
dust choker that flares stellar nurseries—those
violet pockets of collapse & birth—
into being when you speak.