#anacoluthon

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. . . neither solid, liquid, nor aeriform ; a something of extreme tenuity ; imponderable, yet possessing some of the characters of materiality

At night and underneath new light,

The neighbored moon now shines on me.

I walk in nature, nearing home.

But sounds were gnawing at my neck.

-

Nocturnal noises ever nigh.

They nestled niches, knowing now

Where I was -- No, where next I'd be.

But these were native normal sounds.

-

I need not fear Her natural state,

But someone -- something neared my nest.

It gnashed and gnarled, but never moved.

Something nice. Something bright.

Maybe like the buried cars in the middle of Texas. I can still remember eating breakfast at Moonrise, the orange balloons like clouds with trees inside. The constellations and planets painted on the ceiling, hypnotize.

The spray paint, cars the canvas, buried in Texas. Like the feeling of painting stars in my pretend sky. The paintings on the mountains where the Earth curved below me and carved stars above me.

Earth curving here; please lay me down with whom she lies; my biggest fear.

Sometimes, I wish for Texas or New Mexico, for the final stretch. Rolling desert breathing the Arch, watching a baseball game from outer space. Sometimes, I wish I could paint that feeling— that place.