1
the evening sky pulses
like an organ of light and void
the planets aren’t up
to anything i tell myself
a weasel’s shrill cry
behind me in the meadow
i recall the seething darkness
of tadpoles in a shrinking puddle
and the predatory newt who watched
over them as they hatched
east- and west-bound freights
pass each other moaning
a satellite crosses the heavens
without so much as a twinkle
2
dawn sky
through skinny branches
a thin blade of moon
in its halo like a fish on a platter
a quiet trickle from the spring
gives way to guttural trucks
the open range of the night
is closing fast
any minute now the birds begin
their summoning spells
3
if the earth’s ache for rain
should become my own
let me suckle at the root
of the lightning tree
for seventeen years
like a cicada
thunder might become
an antidote to numbness
there may be a howl
that holds us all in its bowl
spring peepers will keep up
their transmissions
4
ground fog and glowworms
build and fade
below the milky way
meteors leave
the briefest of trails
on the horizon the blink
blink of a red-eye flight
i try to picture other skies
elsewhere in the galaxy
what exotic stars
what mysteries of lifelessness
and how many more lives
might i have i wonder
as these stars start to fade
and tires resume
their dull rounds
giving the road called i-99
its red breakfast
