By Jeff Handy
What better portrait of our age than watching in my underwear
the livestream of the International Space Station in orbit,
the bowstring of atmosphere zip-sealed and backlit
against the cold void of space. The earth shot through with light
summed in a frame: apertures to name and take up. Every town
horizonless enough to fence the children in.
I could put pants on, stand at an ordinary intersection
to see a car collapse to a point.
Triangle limbs sprawl to attach wet wire down a length, chancing
to catch the body and the spark at once.
What is a cloud if not an inkwell spilling out?
The navel will meet the spine. A shadow
the moon’s unfocused black,
veering toward a shape.
Jeff Handy’s poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Canto Magazine, Gandy Dancer, SOFTBLOW, The Southern Humanities Review, and elsewhere. He is an Associate Poetry Editor at DIALOGIST and an AmeriCorps member serving in Austin, TX. You can find him on Twitter @j3ffhandy.