Trees and brooding sky. Far shore driftwood tossed, littered with broken ships, perfect moon shells and a dove with its heart poked out. Cliffs older than Versailles, shaped not by the drag of heavy skirts, wash of piss, thwack of heels, but by superstition and weather. No one owns our far reaches. This ceiling, false harbor is the best we can do.
News comes through the radio.
In the dark that voice is our ladder. The one light a green yellow flash passing. We brace for the crash. The meteor exploded over the far shore. They say the ball of flame could not bear our air, the remains hidden under the snow drawn like a blanket across what was too much for the world.