daytime is the illusion,
not this perfect night.
earth is not a blue sphere.
what of these greens
and browns? hillsides dotted
by yellow grasses? wooded
canopies covering over white
speckled dogwoods, early pink
azalea blooms and dark musty
mountain laurels? when
the sun is trumped, de facto
skies are revealed. vast
and black. infinite photons
cast from unfathomable
places all conjoin into a single
point, and i, lying in the yard,
way past dusk, am blessed enough
to arrive at that apogee.
one by one, tiny sparkling
sentinels burn their holes in the
Great Welkin. like scales
dropping from Paul’s eyes, so the
shadow of day retreats at the hands
of an Almighty Firmament. unmovable.
i was not born a creature of day.
this is the Great Guise. our lofty
blue shroud has lost its power over me.