424 Readings | 3 Ratings

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

bordering darkness,

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.

Posted 05/26/12
first appeared in Foundling Review, Spring 2010
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