Postcard from Over the Edge

Yes, it is flat.

My last breath is being held

to describe

how beautiful the Earth’s

exposed brown jaw,

even more so

the thin black supporting neck

of the universe,

like a timid uvula

or glittered testicles

tickled by thousands

of sunbeam tongues.

I’d say I’d write,

but we both know

how that would work out.

The zero gravity pens

spilled from my pocket

after the initial trip and tumble.

Just as well;

there are no writing surfaces

besides my flesh,

I’ve forgotten stamps,

and there are no

mailboxes here,

only thoughts

and shimmering testicles

hanging from an island

festering undeservedly

through eternity’s

expanding patience.