I'm trans worlds, an inbetweener. Up here in the rareosphere I'm pressurized and decompressing. Swallow popping ears and breathing fake air. Just 4 millimetres from oblivion, a silver skin stretches and twists in the jet stream. We're ripping arcs in the sky, trailing heat over bored sailors and numbed baleen. I'm coming home after 20 years, sharing a hand rest with my Dad, all soft haired and tentative. Equipped to replace memories with instagrams, see the kids all grown up now, see the reality-extinguished fire they've raked over. There'll be a clearing in the sky where the old farmhouse stood, an invisible shock and echo to draw the eye back, seeking something missing, which it is. It's all there waiting, as we race to the sunrise, eastbound, homebound, unbound.