There, from the window, fragments
of a night drift in, shattered
against the hulls of stars
moored into the evening sky.
Night falls, burying the distant landscape
like a cast-up shell, drawn
in a rimless swirl of wind
breaching the stillness,
like the corrupted cargo of ships,
unmasted, sunken in trenches
and lost, irrevocably.
In the sky the wind weaves
a clustered hieroglyphics, raises up
constellations we cannot name,
vaguely remembered, spun out
like a sudden wheel on the earth's axle.
Stories to tell you at the edge of night,
vague and unremembered as legends
told in some dim, forbidding court,
by blind men and aging seers,
of something more distant, and final,
than a fading star.
finger and hand together:
far Antares, the shimmering current
raked by the archer's shaft,
quiver of rain and stillness trembling
like a shadow, stretched out:
this burnished pile spindled at our souls.
And still we dare, to find
the least expanse of firmament
inside our dreams, as if to clutch
when starlight fails us, and we drown,
flailing, in the formless rush.