In heaven, a pale uncertain star, Through sullen vapour peeps, On earth, extended wide and far, In all the symmetry of war, A weary army sleeps. The heavy-hearted pall of night Obliterates the lines, Save where a dying camp-fire’s light Leaps up and flares, a moment bright, Then once again declines. Black, solemn peace is brooding low, Peace, still unbroken, when There comes a sound, an ebb and flow— The steady breathing, deep and slow, Of half-a-million men. The pregnant dawn is drawing nigh, The dawn of power or pain; But now, beneath the mournful sky, In sleep’s maternal arms they lie Like children once again.
Yesterday: me, a stone, the river,
a bottle of Jack, the clouds
with unusual speed crept by.
A man was in the middle of me.
I was humbled.
Not by him. The earth,
with its unusual speed,
went from dawn to dusk to dawn.
Just like that. The light
every shade of gold. Gold. I’m
greedy for it. Light is my currency.
I am big with dawn. So hot & so
pregnant with the fire I stole.
By pregnant I mean everything
you see is of me. Daylight
is my daughter. Dusk, my lover’s
post-pleasure face. And the night?
Well. Look up.
Are you ever really alone?