being falls out of the sky,

(in this case, you)

                                       silvered,

mistaken in binoculars,

by amateur astronomers,

          for a passing comet.

                                at distance,

                this light is everything

                   that may be seen,

body burning up

on re-entry,

meat sloughing

off the bones.

                     (you were warned;

     immolation is an awful death).

as yet, you are more

than the inevitable crater,

                a carbonic soot-stain of

 

                    i am

                   i am

                  i am

 

                                      embrace

                           terminal velocity,

                                         enjoy it.

   

while they were up the mountain,

        hiding from god,

you wrote your name

        on the moon

                                  in rocket fuel.

 

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