And the sky is a threaded fish hook

Lost in the margins of reflection,
you were not born to be an Olympian, nor
to cloud-surf, your mouth a perfect ‘O’
as you dove into space, eyes as wide
as astronomers. Magnified
hope is extendable and fractious, like a lens
that’s found the sun and changed
it to a thousand burning visions.
One shows an accountant spidering
lines in forests, waiting for the rasp
of flies, their web a Venn diagram, smooth
as the rings of Saturn. But you?
You’re just a satellite in a blood-red pool,
an image of clouds burnt on your retina –
a thousand water droplets, rising, waving.