An arrow that left its bow in the Middle Ages was still in orbit round and round the earth not having found its…
My God, little flakes falling from
everything hang in the air forever, then
planets form around them, and around them
Too far away to see.
Yet our own flesh attests to them somehow.
Maybe the moles on our arms,
pores, hairs. We know by them
discreet existences elsewhere are surrounded by
Our hearts hanging in our bodies as our
lives orbit around them.
Sun and moon and stars
on a purple field.
Isolation is terrible. Its echo haunts us.
That echo of first creation. That
echo in our ears of the end. Or
all the sounds of our lives are the
silent aftermath of majestic thunder. The
love-whispers and soul sentences. How they
flow up an incline and
out into the air between us.
There’s nowhere to go.
That’s a blessing in itself!