Skylab

At this, the end of the world, I feel more English than Zadie Smith –
not because of white teeth,
but because there is no way to write the stories without
insult.
Surely there is recognition in every word,
written unravelling to rest closest to the truth,
otherwise clouded with nostalgia, imagined nuance.
The price you pay, then, for sensitive observation is
isolation.
A habit becomes the sick feeling
– split-second, stomach sinking –
when you think of your own failure to exist, with
intensity.
Or that of those around you.
You are thus compelled, and not dissuaded, to tell it all.
Looking up at the sky with pent-up anxiety for what might be, you dream
impossibility.
It will fall on your head
when you least expect it.