Stargazing

There is the moon, so chaste and cold,
Waning from full, but beautiful, with runes
And ruins on its face, with seas and clouds.

And there is Mars, as dark as blood.
There’s the Wain, an asterismic cart
Bearing its harvest stars across the heart

Of space, and there’s the diamond bolt,
Polaris, constant, motionless, despite
The provocation of the reeling stars.



Leaving the Garden

Ruins are traces. Discourse on the rainbow:
Optics rewritten as a science not
Of light rays nor of images, but shadows.

For there are certain passions of the light
Illuminating, altering the screens,
...