Monday, October 17, 2016
citrine green and smoke
and slanting yellow light
cradles and calves and cotton
birds with their feathers turning
in that endless emptiness
that made us all.
they say there's another one, out there,
when you lie on this breast of grass and look up at night;
another one where we can go when this one's done
but will it smell like home?
will up be up and down be down
and your mother's ashes in the ground?
blind orphans at your telescopes, she isn't out there.
she's out here.
at 7:32 PM