I.

we were talking about mars again
then space in genere, the kind between bodies
or planets
or small and giant things.

oh! — to be a tardigrade in space
drifting cold slumber,
waiting to awake by a sun's hot kiss
or to die by it.


II.

un-drifting we remain
or rather, drifting through isles of worn-out places
half awake
fighting over cereal, the beans — far too many spices fill us
until everything is just bleach

not bleached, but pungent
and we need a vacation.

i want to find a hill, or a ravine, or some wild thing where stars are
but we are out of bug spray.


III.

instead we go to the sea
the fish are like little suns, or stars,
so we make up
you cup your sun-baked hands — peeling, as if a hotdog done
too long in the microwave — curious if they will be attracted to flesh
but still they ignore
maybe the fish, they've gotten bored of you.


IV.

curious how light plays in water
like clouds moving in a tropical

the same light follows
us, we trek the hill.

i know you are ready for the end.
too long, in tight cars, coastlines and coastlines of
ourselves, and I still need space

but in the shadow of our heartache
i am as small as the tardigrade, tossed by breath
and it too will pass on like the moving sea.