Orbits
Morning moved while autumn wasted
sorrel, from which bloomed nostalgia
bright pink: an envelope,
a sheet pulled over my eyes,
a haze.
Laying in the sun’s own bed, reflected
on the surface of the equatorial Pacific
pulled so tightly over the Earth,
it wraps seamlessly into the sky.
All the while, every water is waiting
for a chance to return
to the center of the planet,
to extinguish the molten core,
to absolve the moon of her illumination,
as the moon’s arc reflects the arc of the sun
but revolves around some other person,
one of the many satellites of Mars.
Your different stars where are they now?
Are they searching like I
am so tired, endlessly tired
and searching like Jack on top the mountain
for a place to clean like new air,
reaching indelibly
for a moment no longer being
tied to a means unerringly;
broken twilight machine,
I will cover everything
and I will cover it completely
but nothing causes a movement in you
as long as there are lights in your eyes
and gasoline in your blood.
