John Kilroy 10.8.01

Astronomy

Our anxious eyes of scattering crows
will see this town obliterate us back
to little more than insect tracks--
numbers: phone, address. Love ends
in smoking silk numerology, launching
airy ashen streamers & fakir ropes
of steam dissipating from 3s
and 9s, until 3319 is postal code
and geography again, not a church
where the risen held each other
into a jumping forest of sleep,
for a sure exchange of dreams.
I had the ambition of jet engines,
while you could lay out time soft
and easy as a picnic blanket.
When I die, your antique pendant
will rush again, gold creek
veiny into the palest apple hills.
I hope to stroll upon your last breath,
as more than a speed of men in doors--
rangy evidence of your boldest miles.
We sail as comets close round
the Earth, then off to the grevious
cold, the interstellar dark. Proof,
we have become: space expands.
We turn, the door clicks bone shut,
then strangers form the heavens
once again for astronomers like us,
each sky chaotic, fine as quantum light.

Copyright John Kilroy