by Gideon Burton
Forget the atmosphere, it is a skin
Of moistened molecules, a slab of heat
And dirt that hems you in, that slowly pins
You to the muddy surface where you eat
The wan pollutions and the heavy breeze
Of broad decay across the tribe of breath
Who chomp and puke and ever cough and wheeze
Until they cloud their time with signs of death.
Remember just the cleanliness of space,
Beyond that sticky sphere of sweat and gloom,
Where nothing heaves its germs into your face
And all will find such distance, blessed room.
Escape the bounds delimiting your role.
Into the vacuum launch your tired soul
Photo: flickr - colinjcampbell