Seek out solid
ground. The jutting prows
of ships, the waves, the gull who flies alone
over oceans and oceans, we all hunger for
static matter. We remain specks
above a vast accumulation
of shipwrecks. Dash against the rocks
thoughts of Pyrrhic victory —
another drop
in the bucket, another day
pressed, another twinkling of pink
pinprick holes punched into night-fabric
pulled taut against some shining
source on the other side, where
nothing but tomorrow sprawls.
Flip through those fragments again
again, there must be more,
please, the sum total from before
dwindles against the after.
Here is the cumulus of grief:
1. a small specimen,
pinned to the earth, face up
under a relentless expanse,
shivering, and fearing
stars.
2.
hollow,
and flat,
it stretches
and stays. It
stays
