Uranus is an urban bonus. In the sky above the suburbasements. Visible
through the subterranean windows. Corpses relax in the moss and watch the
planes and planets cross overhead. Bonus in the sky above the boneyards.
Grandpa Jones plays dice in the mausoleum with his skin off. Rolling the
bones with Eb and Skip.

Planets are spaceplanes in the plane of ecliptic. Planets have the same
plans as spaceplanes — to plane space shavings off the light years and
use them to garnish the Black Sea.

Planets sneak down to drink from our freshwater lakes at night. Only the
remotest lakes, like those on the Tibetan plateau. Now, though, we have
webcam technology — the image you see here was captured in Mongolia at
3:36 a.m. yesterday morning: [INSERT SCREENSHOT HERE].

 

Plane language. They speak of molecules. Of wind shear and atmospheric
phenomena. Sun flash and ice crystal. Planes are never cirrus.

 

Planetary planes. Angry planes in loud arguments with planets. The story
of a plane on a Wisconsin tarmac that fell in love with a flock of
migrating geese. Planes love how the wind wears a shear negligee in the
diaphanous evening.

 

Planes and planets plan in secret, heads bent together conspiratorially
in conjunction. Planes, planets over the pampas planetarias. Dry grass
and a skyful of wild stars, dark shading over to greyrose dawn down over
the windy eastern slopes, grasstalks talking in the skulking breeze that
kept the dew from forming all night, no matter how hard the moon tried.

 

Moonlight congeals directly to dew in the concealed hollows of the
planetary spaces. Moonlight hides moondew in white lozenges and sends
them down into the gravity well, like wishing stones, rippling at the
bottom of the cold stone walls. Wellwater enriched by gravity and the
fall of moondrops.

 

Dawn the colors of a cold schoolgirl shuffling. Dawn in an ultramarine
beret, charcoal skirt and peach blouse, a black purse slung down her back
and a yellow notebook folded across her chest. Walking out across the new
world, Argentina half a world away. Sao Paolo schoolgirls learning
English.

 

The Argentina vaginas, sighing as the sun comes up, sighing in violet
sheets under the Argentinan roof of the world — cosy on the sheep
pampas. Sheep in pajamas on the pampas. Pajama bottoms of wool shiver in
the morning chill, their cuffs wet with dew. The sheep wander into the
sky, bells tinkling, and set with the stars. The shepherd stands around
stunned in ragged pajama bottoms, bereft of flock. Even his beret is
askew. Nothing left to do now but go to school.