looking for the aurora

toes curl

gripping rock through shoe and moss

pressing brief bones against a plunge of denseness

my tongue tastes endurance

more feeling than looking

then up, inevitably

up into the great whatever

not into riddles or faded histories of starlight

catching yesterday’s plasma

high flies

against the big black fullness

high flies

rippling daggers slice the empty

 

this point a singularity

 

under it all

holding on to nothing

holding nothing in

until the next point is less than something

nothing is left

but the rock

the sky

and me

 

 

David Trudel       © 2014

 

 

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