blackeyesunrise

Living here I am reminded of those days
spent deciphering the silk spun crawl of moon towards
an uncentered sky, as if the totality of life hinged
on waking or waiting for the sun to outweigh the night,

Which it never does, after all, what is impermanence,
it is the second skin of wet that makes
a rock a stone, the layer of absence that makes
a whole a hole, these things are one and the same

Given time or too much longing, even when night
despairs and rattles with furious splendor, unbalanced
perhaps dangerous, the second skin can be peeled
away and the earth returned to circle a star again,

Yet here we are, alive, barely risen up
from the bubbled sprawl for a self-centered sly;
perhaps we should hope for impermanence after all,
praying forgiveness just as mists make saints of pall.