by Sam Preminger

far from shore and drifting,
his thoughts – steam boilers,
two thousand women at home
waiting – in bedsheets linen,
cotton, or nothing.
whisper of flame :

crumbling men like paper,
paper like leaves, then
ash. a hundred, a thousand translations
escape, mere pittance, the house of wisdom
ignites –  five centuries written by hand
translates: six moons of the Tigris,
black as 

ink, at the edge of the universe
pushes planets,
stars, elements undefined –
seventy three point eight
plus or minus
two point four kilometers per second
per million parsecs –  a place
we will never see, but drifting,
think of steam. 

Sam Preminger would rather have been born a moth, even if it meant drowning in your kitchen sink. He studies Creative Writing and Philosophy at SUNY Geneseo, but that will be over soon.