The morning promises to go on for ever.
Nothing stirs, in the too-blue sky,
in the gallery of grass
– Ten thousand blades, razoring the air,
like ten thousand mouths,
and the open mouth stare
of the ever-ever sun and its ever-ever glare –
Nothing stirs. Nothing would.
Nothing ever dares.
Might be this, in its strange perfect way –
the stiff collar sky
and the always-always day.
Wooden white aircraft toy with my eyes,
They are at it again, pencilling their lines.
See how they orbit, see how we gape,
Our universe suspended in their tiny outer space.
Though the world might end tomorrow and we’ll never know why,
We can comfort-cool each other and in hot hope lie,
For our field is a vision of the sun’s unblinking eye
and our ceiling is a sheet of cut-glass sky.