Opportunity

Opportunity

On Martian skies darkness bestows
the end of Sun’s last minute-arc.
I find my battery is low
and outside it’s getting dark.

For fifteen years I did embark
into starlight’s afterglow,
but now Apollo at last departs
and I find my battery is low.

I provided images, film, and audio
about this barren galactic park
to my billion fans below,
but now for me it’s getting dark.

Fear not my dears, look up, take heart;
this present sorrow you will outgrow.
But before I finally depart,
I’ll stay until my battery is low.

I’ve carried all my cargo,
I’ve seen every lovely star,
so mourn not the fading show,
nor pay attention to the dark.

These will be my last remarks:
that I have loved this dusty snow,
ruling as a sole monarch,
despite a battery so low.

And when like me, you’re all alone,
have learned this emptiness by heart,
when you find your battery is low,
and outside it’s getting dark,

recall my hope that you will part,
follow your own divergent road,
and find your own universal spark
even when your battery is low.

My time has come, I’ve made my mark,
now Death’s sweet hand I must follow,
since my software will not restart;
at long last my battery is low,
and outside it’s getting dark.

topography: of a letter

topography: of a letter

this paper warmed by your hand
inked with your mind,
without a backspace in sight
will sit in my pocket
until the next one.
see this bump, a breach
of papyrus where your
hand slipped, or maybe
the pen deceived you
into thinking she would stay
sweet to the end of the line––
i love that bump, proof
of our humanity.
this little stain here,
on the northwest corner
of the page, what
was that?
water or wine or
tears? your words bleed
a little, curve around it,
petals opening
to the sun.
it smells like you,
leaves and haircut grass,
perfumed distance.
My hand pauses
over the page–– what to
say in the face of that beauty?
How to convey love and
hope and missing
but understanding
in a few words?
I ask about the weather.

topography: of a mattress

topography: of a mattress

see here, this divot on the side closest to the window?
I have watched a hundred thousand phases of the moon
through the blindslats, light cresting over the ridge of
this off-brand Tempurpedic.
the covers here, in the center, never seem warm enough,
a lake in the valley between my legs, hushing
memories into fitful sleep.
two hills rise from the springs,
many-peaked mountain range
where I spread my avalanche hair.
pull that snow blanket overhead,
but hope not to wake in the drift.
rivulets between summit and holler
recall remains of another body,
another mountain range, another
set of lakes and winding paths
now eroded,
fossilized in memory foam.
a discarded bookmark
at the bottom of the canyon between
sill and tossing body
reminds me that I’ve lost my place.

view from my driveway

view from my driveway


See the ridge in the distance, rising
    peaks that touch the dawn.
Green risers in steppes from the base
    prove the diversity of the deceivingly
monotonous greenery,
    betraying deeper wisdom.
How much they must have to teach.


Ancients gaze from their heights,
    not down but out,
daring me to reach,
    to touch their
         burning edges
and endure the sunrise
    without remorse.
How far their eyes must reach.