First Star, Modulo the Moon

 

Suddenly alone in the lowering
of house lights. Childless, and so
scooped up by that last galleon, burning
a hole through the bottom. Lidless, lazy,
unduly proud or perhaps simply
unable to sit still
for the portrait. No part
in the pageant, no hilt stone, no tracks
to jump, nothing so simple
as steel. This window, this wish, this slave
to habit, now a white nest. And the fine
light at last drops into the bowl
that changes its mind and becomes
the curve of the world. This light that
writes and writes against the flat black
beneath the mountains. And the carpet
of stars? As a wake for those left behind.

 


 

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