The fall of morning tumbles gently

In a drift and glimmer

Of silver lightshade,

The glue sap sticking to the day

In the form of static.

 

Passing cars thrift an image on the wall

Of someone not looking back but

Always moving forward.

 

Ready for terror and joy.

All the wonderful things

Of which we have been warned:

 

The chokesuit and rope,

The fields of gleaming galaxies

Set in stone outside the door

Waiting for someone

To look back.