He Wants Out

He Wants Out

Looking down is
looking up. You know,
Rothko-logic, as above,
so below, horizon as
equals sign. Or as the
white space between
the dark bars of the
equals sign. The earth’s
crust as horizon. As barrier
between polka-dotted
fiery freedom and
the irony, nickely fist
closed round the center
of the planet. Which allow
for each other’s existence.
We can’t differentiate
between enormities, the
big, big ocean, the ocean-
sized one patch of sky
we are always mooning over.
As I’ve heard humans
say about their dog:
he wants out. No verb,
just the result, inside
and warm one moment,
then poof, the open air
and all the stars to stare
back you, walls for windows
and ground that swings open
like a screen door to the sky.