You’d ordered it, the sky – unpacked
it at dawn, decanted the moon into your hipflask:
the things we are led to believe
stars grown in sleeves like flowers,
signs in a scrapbook, as in science.
The stratosphere arches its humpback,
that much is true, yawns
throws suns across the deep like pool balls.
Suppose these were dangerous times,
endings that would bring
the sky down
& you’d just summoned a fireball that consumed
your hands & face & you said
look at me
Andrew F Giles has work in Ambit, Magma, Equinox, Ink Sweat & Tears etc. He edits Scotland’s literary arts & culture journal New Linear Perspectives and his article John Burnside’s Poetics of Failure: A Havoc of Signs can be read in the US journal JERRY.