The world is a great palace
of beaches, souvenirs and mini-golf.
I am too tiny to hurt it.
You can’t crack the sky.

The lightswitch is full of light.
The airport is full of air,
circulating above me,
for a mile, for more, forever,

so space must be full of warm breezes
on which moths fly, hypnotised,
to the moth-coloured Moon.
Everywhere is exactly like home.

Smoke rises, thins, and is gone.
We do harmless, ordinary things.
One day our grandchildren will do them too.
You can’t crack the sky.

Gulls yap between the planets.
Passenger jets don’t drop bombs.
The waitresses in the hotel restaurant smile
because they like me.

© Will Holloway 2008