Roar and rend your way, spirals
of heaven’s stars sprayed nations
through a straw, sticky and dripping
with quiet-cast paint passing
heat tremors in air ducts
where aerosols alone
geyser streams of gas hiss
into the night’s suck.
Do we grow inverse, over time, as you coil
baiting genres that came before?
Your hands, a stall for the ripcord,
the whip-back rush before a gentle land.