14 Jun Messier 45
Posted at 17:20h
in Poems
“Four oils issue forth between the leather and page,”
I am alone, as you said, and I cannot know anyone:
To be like the woundless ocean or the tearless sun
Or a constellated dancer crowding a cosmic stage,
And I trouble no more and have no cause to run.
Grayed skies span firmaments with zero attendants
To gather the mottle of the earth in unrepentance —
All too horrible to cast into a legible sentence.