Fooled

Floorboards may as well be oceans.

The earth curves that way
and the tiny world
seems eternal.

Year blooms to year,
still age
does not steal us
from ourselves
until it does.

And that always a surprise.

On mountaintops,
I've seen the game:
horizon bent to a finite bow.

But then the starfields

that
fool us still in greater ways,

flat blue and silver
sprawled upon the
ceiling,

glimpsed
through
failing atmosphere,

stacked thick
with infinities
and heavens.