The Galaxies are Still Moving Away from Each Other
A sheep lay dead in its strewn wool
and never did the field look so green.
Simply put, we both went quiet.
Before us the road hymned
to the wolf or dog, teeth like stars
who freed from flock and body
a sheep. I reached for your hand,
or for instinct, whatever might lead
through the silent miles
of closer, come closer.
I’ve entered the woods
castaways live under tarp and twine
and I’ve disappeared, my whereabouts known to no one.
On those nights how the stars
rained down, rained a traveling howling
carousel. Took my lily-white face,
my tambourine hands, still to be lost,
still to be found, and of me made
a star pattern at the edge of our universe,
where, across a great divide, I waved to the lights
of ships trammeling into the void.
I’ve been falling back towards earth ever since.
Falling and waking in those woods,
to trees rosining their boughs,
wind resonating a hymn-like hum,
and my heart bleating the distance
of one, one-two, one.