Our room grew a hole when the sky landed by our heads and, when meteorite met bed of linen taut with our stereotypical tensions, the walls gasped for air
You and I roll out to satellite lives, discrete roles on a split screen, the obvious rock between when the ceiling leaks
If we point to the spot, camping out on the rock —make peace with a ceiling gaping absurd fate—can we laugh that our autopilot under this humdrum canopy was spiced up by space debris?
Published December 2021 in South Shore Review