More dark than gray, but not yet quite dark
entirely, the stories keep ending as if there were
a limit to what any story could hold onto, and this
the limit, the latest version of it, looking a lot like the sea
To constellate, the way desire
does, sometimes, with fear, or anger—both, occasionally—
and there’s been gentleness, too, I’m here, I’ve
always been here…
Maybe between mystery
and what little we can say for sure
happened, lies a secret even
memory itself keeps somewhere
hidden because for now
it has to.
Less like wishing too late, I mean,
for a thing to be otherwise than like fire closing in
so absolutely, it can almost seem intimacy
had yet to be invented, and here’s the fire,
inventing it: Constellate,
Look at the field,
studded with the blue-black eyes of broken heroes.
One of the eyes is moving. It can still see. What does it see?