I am the master

of weather patterns,

so I worry

about critical mass.

I squash safe zones

and erupt

and sing so hard I flood

the sandbox.

When I eclipse,

I am miniature

and unworldly.

I sit real close to exits.

I prepare for ugly feelings

and emerge

a collapsed planet.

In three of the twelve hours

of the night, I hold my breath

like a thermostat

while somewhere else

kites are lightning struck

and I'm not.

I'm a tiny expanding bulb

and I do not orbit.

I keep this cloud alive.

Now my arms are long.

I will float down from here.

I will cling to notions

of small-time magic,

swell my thermal scale.

When the skies snap,

I'll squawk how I love reversal.

I'll swing from my cupola

like a fat, proud continent.