I sit on the roof, outside my window
on the second floor of my house
smoking hookah and watching the Bunge
plunge into the sunset.

The smoke ring sits gently with the parked
letters
of the spray can’s spark,
flutter me an antidote

“A T T A K T H E G L O B E”

Why not take the globe and push it a little
down a hill, maybe give it a kiss with a few toes
and a nimble hello with the passing stones.
Maybe we could wash it with sweet liquor
and watch as the little mountains grow sicker
and soak with the languid moats surrounding.
Is this kid kicking with him the middle
of the street or is it just his feet
with him?
It’s so easy to just give it a rinse and then
be done with it. It’s so easy to just rise and say that
the sun isn’t part of it anymore.

It’s so easy to fall from here.

The shingles frail the windows unraveled
the cringe of the bugs scatter the sound
of the Boards of Canada under my window
out of the nostalgia without the mouth
the crawl and the incandescent light bulb.