day-star [poetic]

Bright kenning, blinding ball of kinetic flame,
we spread out, cosmologically, instantaneously,
clumping into inflated matter and dark energy.
Born with cosmic acceleration, exploding supernovae
that could potentially continue forever.

Or so I read. Or was it said?

The geometry of the universe, its overall uniformity,
moves away from me, moves away from she, and he,
and, in particular, toward a gradual nothingness
that will expand over trillions of years, dissipating
matter and energy into distinct particles, stretched thin
across the universe.

We sit in a black place,
charcoal before the day-dawn,
before the white star rises
to greet thousands
of bright blooded hearts.

The Voice Not Heard

It is a difficult task, this one of keeping
the road straight and narrow.
You can get distracted in the mountains,
mesmerized by looming boulders on the ridge.
They are colored by paint of the ages,
edged with a mossy green growth.
You may find yourself drawn
to the chilled waters of the running brook
or the cool shade of the evergreen canopy.

You know that keeping the road straight
can wait for a while.
Waiting in the green reticence
is the shape of all your seasons.
You stare into thick clumps of trees
eager to lure it out.

Anchorage

In my brother's toy army,
the men march in unison
with pointed guns, shiny,
black, flat and in symmetry.
Afloat on the lake is the boat
I made for him.
A craft fashioned
of thin reeds extracted
from my bones.
It floats quietly, almost
motionless; natural ammunition
stolen from the gutter,
now stored in its depths.
Cold alights like moths tearing
through woolen sleeves. Fallen—
the boat touches shore and I watch
the proud soldiers march
in silence through the weeds.
I stand on a fogged-in pier
where the boat I made for my brother
disappears in the water beyond.