A Thousand Words

Summer quarantine in a jar.
The wasps warn
these September skies
with their swirling nebulas
are the collision of a boy
with crab claws trying to catch
on paper the dark matter
crumpled tissue of the clouds
bleeding into ink stains.
Haunted by the sun
which holds a million earths
but is only a smallish star.
The ghost of a face floating free
of the mountains in the bottle.
Wings, infinitesimally small,
still beating against the glass.