Our room grew a hole when
the sky landed by our heads
and, when meteorite met
bed of linen taut with
our stereotypical tensions,
the walls gasped for air
You and I roll out to
satellite lives, discrete
roles on a split screen,
the obvious rock between
when the ceiling leaks
If we point to the spot,
camping out on the rock
—make peace with a ceiling
gaping absurd fate—can we
laugh that our autopilot
under this humdrum canopy
was spiced up by space debris?
