The Aftersong

Something knowing occupies

the sky. A color or a light

that seems to see.

A kind of wish, imperfect

as the gods and monsters that the mind bleeds.

A direction felt like wind.

Perhaps the weather holds it up.

But should that blowing stop

and drop it where we stand

upon our blue, eroding rock, what

would it disturb with its visions

and then its aftersong

which will never be clear

or long enough?

—