My home is on the top of the world.
Having rolled over in orbit, I feel sun on my backside.
It’s summer in the underbelly; lucky Argentina.
The light angles in like a flashlight under my chin,
All ghoulish, accentuating contrast.
South windows are a dusty liquid filtering rays like pond scum.
I blub like a sluggish fish.
November runs on borrowed energy, bounced off a distant prism.