The Deep Skies
There is coming to be
a land, that stretches
out with hope.
But space, I think,
the quiet living room,
the couch,
the slow days,
all I feel is somehow
not a part of it,
as if tomorrow
were the reason to live.
The stillness is aware of you,
down the window, the rain softly drips.
Past the broken lights, do you see,
the brown eyes of the mare, and past that, oblivion?
We were not charged with the building of walls,
the wide eyed terror, our gentle son,
falls over those who sleep with a gentle hum,
we sow in the deep skies our poplars of darkness.
