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Flicker Astrous 

Robert Glick

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On the failed midnight of your rapture, we restarted the lizard engine.
Exhaustion inset, dozing upright in the gasoline shower, or inverted like a
      bat.
Wanting our narrators noah-deaf and listen-primed and groomed to
      impossibility.
The shipwreck: always an ark, a secondary extinction, a hopetamp.

Wonderwoman’s Airplane materialized into three or four sentiences.
The parrot took off from the crack of the spine, regurgitated seeds into the
       binding.
Galileo, groundglass, lungshard, vulture.
Dr. Watermelon and Ivy: our tonguedull pronouns, in tort, flickered astrously.

Temphomes: our garage, our bunker, our treehouse, our subtropolis.
As for the rust brush, we unearthed a tattoo of a sprocket, a second that
       read “temporary.”
Sequestering all the dirtwater names that got splashed over us.
Now that we’ve worn your new reading glasses, everything farsight is slurry,
       sunk.

We said we see all the too much time.
You said we sign too broad, too loud, too unlikely.
You’ll hear.
We were exemplary collectors and we were almost right.

Your gift-exchange, for the detail of the pores: sparrow apocalypse sparrow.