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All the ghosts in this vessel
Frightened of dying
All the words on the tips of their thumbs
Abbreving in Latin and mechanical pidgin
To conserve all desire in their lungs
If I turn the sky groundwards
From the sea they'll rise,
All those hapless navigators
Reaching for the stars
As they fall around our feet
And underneath our cars
All the stone in this bread cannot be turned
Despite the gnashing of my teeth in my sleep
But men do prefer the whole room to be burned
Than to just treat the floor to a sweep
If I turn the sky groundwards
From the sea they'll rise,
All those hapless navigators
Reaching for the stars
As they fall around our feet
And underneath our cars
All the ghosts in their windows,
Tapping and etching
Out the living into bottle-necked enfolds
Every hothouse has a memory of the
Bees that don't get through
But none of how all the flowers grew
If I turn the sky groundwards
From the sea they'll rise,
All those hapless navigators
Reaching for the stars
As they fall around our feet
And underneath our cars
~ Brendan Bonsack
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