Vision

Spendthrift stars cross endless sky.

They search for nothing, find nothing,
even as they’re tracked and measured,

photographed and analyzed;

specks of light in crests of darkness
above troughs of darkness;

impulses animated by energy

bound in self-consuming shadow-play,
they flicker in the spaces between worlds.

Here, in this light-edged landscape,

ghosts of gods float on leathery wings
among scattered rays: tamer of beasts

and queer shaman, gowned goddess,

she with no cloak over her shoulder.
Claw-footed Lilith—Erishkigal—

Inanna—Enkidu—Gilgamesh drift
among galla-creatures, enkum-creatures,
lahama monsters, sound-piercing kugalgal,

giant uru and terrible enunun.

All those who marched from the dark,
glide into our world and then sail on

and out into an emptiness beyond our stars:

demons riding a cosmic wind.
Now night clears. The great backdrop
of heaven folds suddenly into itself.
The sky’s blue hides black depths.
A curtain of light falls,

refracted in dusty air.

All your horrors fade to daylight
streaked against a brand new horizon.

Wind comes up. Clouds crest

like galleons in a great armada
ranged against blood-drenched sun.

No one will win. Dawn will turn mundane.

Workers will clock-in. Timely trains
will trundle into fresh-swept stations,

debouch their drones and back away.

Come evening a fresh assault will start
on suburban bedrooms battalioned

by frail, old men who lift their weapons

to defend themselves from the brazen dragon
who lives on life, dies and lives again.

Master of this flux or acolyte,

your choice is cyclical: kill or die.
In the ocean of the sky,

seen or unseen, Jupiter’s moons

still orbit and reckless stars
get and spend their borrowed silver.