I hear scales sailing off the altocumulus.
Rolls and waves bend notes in ways I thought unattainable.
Chromatic D minor dips a vibe into my skin, frightens up hairs for E,
excites the stiffness of Z at alphabet’s end,
swings me skyward to the hot thermal of orbit.
And when B blares, I can’t remain grounded.
It floats me outerspace-ward over string disasters:
the round-wound unravels my core, shoots directions beyond 360,
beyond the Karman line, and the moon, beyond
chalky white stars, beyond plasma cohesion and nucleosynthesis—
the supernova kind.
And you wouldn’t believe the water vapors staccato
like a ladder of eighths and sixteenths trickling
in heptonia prima, a prime mode to surrender myself to sleep
back to the pillow of galactic slumber
like a crunch
of fresh apple bite.