The hole in the ozone is still there.
Scientists are scratching their heads,
growing again.
It never changed our view anyway.
We caught no breeze, the barometer hovered
as it had, the particulars were all accounted for.
This is us, inside
a paneless window that doesn’t divide
out and in and even
if we were told an escape hatch had been made
none would climb up and peak,
resisting gravity
for a chance at Vertigo.
We have proven with balloons and bubbles
so much depends upon a human to wield his barrow,
display his collections,
vend his hot wares and drop his cool coins
in finite jest.
Planes and boats, both heavier than conscience
will float, but we must hold our breath.
Balls drop the same, roughly we round up
all the probabilities
and project our tiny lights towards metaphors of
eternally, outside of the time.
Separating by degree
and elevation, those that climb the walls
and those that sink their souls
in the sand, focused on forever
slipping away,