Rockets on Bibles

As if it skipped for a second
the ‘wow’ of lost, distorted tones.
Maybe it was in shadow,
or film cut to an edit
that makes you paranoid,
nervous, shy
or wary.
Could’ve been half way
to the moon by now,
but instead she is almost
in Colorado.
Now, the violins have taken you from the stage
and they are suiting your picture for the advert.
Dumb. Mad.
Juvenile.
The dancing girls need a minute or two,
before all the glittered stockings and toys
swoon them to blush.
She could be minutes from being your Rocketeer,
and the smell of her on your arm gives you the songs
but slowly-
               (in the back of the mind)
                         -her gone
would make you a second class citizen again.
As it glides to feet that jump
the unsettled ease to fall back to bed
and play out like millionaires on vacation.
It shimmers as you confess and her
kisses, so softly makes the swims.
You can almost taste it
like sea salt from the ocean;
a slick breeze that hums out silly tunes
creeping out widows and old German statues,
silk skin and stares that mean everything.
Glowing faces on a winters field,
She remembers your middle name
To Fall. To Fall.
To Fall
To Fall