There were stars too-
and of course, it was clear as crystals
with a full ball of mercury rising up
near ninety degrees,
moon shadows with a blue halogen aura
shrank and shriveled,
well before sunrise
everything hung in place,
every breath was held
and humid from being inside the body
where courage gathers
like a photo collection,
(in single dimension)
that could be assembled in someway,
in chrono-or-logical order like constellations
that slip and slide down time lines,
yet no sense would penetrate
nor make land fall.
There I was, looking for something else,
out there
with me
dropping leaves
like I let go
of every thing
on dawns tip-toes,
through light night
pretending not to notice
the disturbing peace.
Painting by Martin Johnson Heade, Passionflowers and hummingbirds c. 1870-1883 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
