Sunday, February 24, 2008


DRAWN


In the hushed and forgiving silence
after a snow fall, distant voices

sound like they’re right in your ear;
they ride from shoal to shoal.

Even the abandoned, graffiti-glyphed
public swimming pool can seem
like an inverted cathedral, a bowl of hope.
The street lights saucer out, the sky
is mute with mist. But I know

the constellations still burn above.

One of them an archer, bow drawn,

eyes on his prey, and his arrow never to hit.

We pulled him that way out of the sky,
stitch by stitch. Trillions of miles drawn
in one hushed breath.

Monsters