Asterism long poem

Photo by caq

It’s not gonna be long before we realize again
that we must return
to the quiet of wakefulness,
the jump to belated scenery that undulates
like time, like minutes in your head after the greensward
sank weakly beneath the ground of years.
This is our frail voice, the voice that has endured
the great pause, always susceptible
to the unfolding of loss,
the voice that waits beside us while our lifespan stares
at a door with no sign
behind which hills lie, hemmed by dusky sleepiness.
I do not understand all these things,
these ongoing places drifting
towards the light at the edge
of a moment that changes like a small, empty island.
Sometimes, it changes in your presence.
Then, your presence will crumble
as if you
are being surrounded in a blunt, harmless instant.
The grids on the furniture roam
into senectitude,
the heavy dewdrops that will become the motions
of your last tools that you can never own
even with your most ambitious effort.
Just as the crusts of these clothes
drain without anyone knowing it,
the usage of tones will too
recede to its cavern
to save the plainest intermission
that has sat perfectly since the age of found things
in the minutiae of invisible activities
that followed us
as far as the harbor ruins on a fallen night.
The moon, the crockery, the shifting scrawls on the notes in the brown drawer;
All modulates the departure
necessary for trying
for failing
to swoop down on the draped water
by thinking of oneself
as a projectile that falls apart
beyond this
inescapable whump.
Tonight, i’ve let my sigh rest.
And your blue eyes are gone,
like they have always been,
like how they will always be
in the days to come.
Somewhere around here, our sight gives way
to the becoming of somebody else,
so private we feel it numbing behind our back,
somber, sweet
already passed
like a nameless constellation
in the oceans of a fleeting sky.

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