To the tiny ones sitting
in tin cans, hands on their
laps, heads bowed, bodies
kicked, there are skies and
virtue and glass to help you
slide there is water bursting
out of ash a horizon without
a ceiling, and tears sitting on
a lash can be seen, there are
black dots, you've fallen
through, being filled, there
are lungs and feet and fingertips
and bursting bags of bodies without
a skeleton you can still climb out of
fields of rain let you roll into the sea,
where they, will leave you.