Very Large Array
Seven thousand feet closer,
Inevitably, to the clouds.
Our heads gone stupid from the blue,
From the vexing glare of the sun,
From the dense swarms of grasshoppers
Hitting our faces, crackling under our feet.
There exists but one precise word
For this beautiful mess – perfect.
Perfect, much like the human eye.
The eye that can only perceive
The tiniest fraction of waves
That relentlessly buzz and wash over us.
So small that it necessitates
The erection of colossal
Crutches that will help us forget
That we’ve always been kinda blind,
Which I wouldn’t complain about
Because we’re seven thousand feet closer.