A pattern of explosions, like Zeus doing his laundry,
and a festive drop of a thick-again, thin-again hat:
these, and a million more. When shutters pull
apart to reveal a pearly white something, or
when a mop of fine silk is contained,
I am content.
Stars explode across the sky,
until they are outmaneuvered by the sun,
casting back the cold emptiness from whence it came.
Shadows crawl to life, and a din of dark-damped sounds
emerges from nowhere.
The earth pirouettes in an intricate
number with her partners, choreographed by a madman
with an eye for numbers but not logic.
Somewhere across the globe all manner of
creatures peer at one another before rushing to
(and through) their days, until they retire.
Shadows cry out as their souls stretch to infinity,
and crickets chirp a symphony of questions.
All that remains of our scurrying brothers
is a series of headlamps, foolishly mimicking
their parents – the stars.
Foolish. It’s all so foolish when you
and I are here, and the rest
equates to a crossword best left
unfinished.
Tags: Poetry
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