Meteors across a cloudy sky
that shoot and zip by at 36,000-miles-per-hour trailing
white sparks behind them, swelling bright for some
seconds, then settling unseen descending as dust into
meadows and trees, their long untraceable journeys over.
Below, in the coastlands, something similar is going on.
Bright lights racing down asphalt lanes disappearing
into a mist brought on by overcast skies and no chance
to see meteors that end their brief lives in our presence.
Yet, something has ended; some light abruptly eclipsed.
Sirens move through the darkness as somewhere above
the clouds, planets hold their unswerving positions,
nebulae cloak in obscurity, the entirety of the heavens
unperturbed by the small goings-on in the continental flats
of an unremarkable drop of blue tear we call home.
What it is we will come to find out, though we will not
want to. This is how it is with most things, the persistence
of enticing illusion being the malcomfort it is. To concede
what it is to be down in streets run red with the body’s weep
is to throw meteors across a cloudy sky and call it beautiful.
May 26, 2014