Here, I can see the stars;
In the stone tank that once held water—
But now hosts only retired leaves,
Dust, lifted from the dirty access road,
A faded coke can, left for the roaches,
The night is pleasant;
A gust clears the tank in a single bound,
Skirting the walls of my hideaway with graceful ease,
Mercurial and unconcerned,
To be followed, directly, by an innumerable stampede of the same;
Still, I am protected;
Through the circular, sort of fish-eyed, tunnel-vision,
The constant frame of my view,
I cannot see the wind, nor its grace,
Only the stars;
Little, glamorous shines against the sullen night,
Far off, yet prismatic,
Here, I can see the stars for time immeasurable,
Uninterrupted by the Sun,
Whose ambition to rise is insufficient to disrupt my fascination,
Promises of warm skin, phantasmal and unconvincing;
Still, in the darkness, starlight fills my eyes,
As the wind frolics about, unseen.
© Copyright 2017 Tom H Hart. All rights reserved.
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