victor composes a wishful thought

the tragic emissions of deteriorating atoms
lurch into a heap at the end of your bed:
catch us! they cry. o catch us and push
us back to our usual form. and you sit where
the mattress slopes and where the video-game beeps
and faded cotton sheets crumple off into space,
and you write your teething capitals in a black notebook.

her name eludes you, now, but you can remember
the sticky-rain nights last august when it meant
tiger parades and interstudious life forces. the
betwixt-and-between of warm green tidal reds and
the neat texts you meant to kindle for her. her name
emitted from a restless atom-heap makes you wonder
"what other planet features this?" and you should go
exploring them to find out. i promise to miss you.