UFO
You, a shiny sparkling splendor of light,
decorative and dancing across aerodynamics,
would be a star if not for the law of stars
that says to burn is to burn in place,
gaseous and glowing. Your skin silver
polished smooth in reckless night sprints
shuffling celestial half-court drills
over Arizonian skies, Jersey, New Mexico:
suicide scrimmage, scurry and fly, an object
come to pass, a green blip—unidentified
and unknown. You are a gospel to gravity
in a vessel so casually called volition, and
choose to plummet blind, to burn and fall,
kicked from constellation, a jewel plucked
from Orion’s belt, a crackle of fire, a flicker
of fading ash, earth—shattering, satisfying
your dreams to shun and show the night
that being bright, white, and burning
is a matter of perception. Your veracity
shows streaking downward, delivered,
crashing into open desert, where men wait
with lab-coats and clip-boards to devour
the secret of flight. And you lay your body
before them, satisfied, that for a moment,
shooting, flamed with desire, being a star
did not matter anymore. Trailed by an exodus
of light, you absorbed so many wishes.
