U.F.O.s

Vaguely you notice they do not square:
these flying mobile sources in your atmosphere
at emotion’s outermost alien-edge.

Enigmatic points of no return,
they fleet a second or two across distracted nerves,
never ever leaving memory.

You only know they’ve been,
not what they matter — Unidentified Feeling Objects
for something you won’t be yet

or for a thing crowded complacency —
like a colony of sea-birds on a jagged cliff —
perpetually in its chatter overlooks,

but where, normally, you cannot listen
their keener tuning in you half-divines
sub-audible fossil water’s undertones.