All the stars died last night and with them
my knowing of the sun, it’s sudden
Bantam—dwarfs of white and brown, a supernova, a black hole.
Like the winnowed darkness turns
dimmer inside. [That discreet object]
This flight of ideas in the stead
of dream proves that I am
powerless against this world. The gravity of it all.
Those worlds, some say
is God-hunger or God-haunt, afflicting
those that want for sleep. Or the sleeplessness
itself that makes me long
for different air, for Hildegard’s egg-shaped universe, for my own
saintly visions of the apocalypse. [simply darkness]
And what is meant by all of this? That is to say, it’s just
the day that’s wasted—the child
in the setting sun, her shadow long as if she were
twelve feet tall, a red giant.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
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