At each decimation of the early stars,
under the mists from cinders, I withdrew
through nebulous and vacant substitutes.

Tall oligarchs ruled then, by wealth and fear.
Competitive betrayals tilted things:
even the weather, paths ahead, the soil.
Sun became foe to sight. Moon hurt the brain.
And what, now, can elude such sour air,
the chemistry that infiltrates the water.

False mirrors dried in cracks across this mouth.
I’d amputate myself from their engorgement,
but no clean blade is glimmering anywhere.
No runway. Fused onto a fast conveyor,
my doubtful end will neither stay nor go.

***

There is a way this doubtful stay can cure
reversed through sudden influx down my veins
of nutriment, substantial and robust,
whose properties disgorge me, will unclog
the arid estuary of reflection,
filter its toxins, quicken backward ponds
to freshets, ruffling them before new wind …

How so? My solar friend dreams up the moon here
in sanguine, temperate moods that sash the earth
under a green breath channeled with green caring,
such that reciprocal assists and gifts
flow bountifully from an open hand

cupping the fires that never fume, but shimmer
a constellation on the fecund strand.

Allan Briesmaster