He closes his eyes, breathes in the vastness
of finality. Time does a little jig,
tick ticking, tock tocking,
an explosion of reality in his ears.
Time is a martyr:
yesterday it was the sea, the assault
of an ending
world on the primacy of his ego.
wraps itself around his heart,
but he dare not cry out to the moon.
She will notice him,
and maybe gravity becomes
a symptom of rollercoasters
and flightless wanderings
in search of manna.
It was a hoax, he thinks.
A set for a moon landing could be built
inside a week, but how does one fake