Clearly, setting sky is a paling panel,
horizon the brim, of a ceramic dust bowl.
At the lip, two faint star pricks
separate into international flights.
The red dust teased back a cowlick
fringe on a hidden rill. You know
the calm belies the other-world
gale, sealed by the window.
Titanic dunes fight the blast
and howling atmosphere
fights your foreign materials.
There’s no thing alive but
you. Passing through.
In a thin metal sleeve.