Wombed

We are wombed in light and air-
soft fall the missiles that would otherwise
crater us and crack our pretty skins

Wrapped in soft flesh, we float
through social atmosphere, wombed
with quiet oblivion against each projection,

Though cloaked from true sight,
a blindly drifting sphere through
ever encircling voids

Fingers softly brush our orbits,
smiles, love, eyelashes, quiet words
womb the hungry crater within

These terrible distances blur through the womb-haze
into blue skies, unfathomed the surrounding drop.
Crushing death of rock and metal flashes into a pretty streak