The Dawning of the Age

Nobody said it would be easy, when it comes
The crescent is a sickle, a scythe, the edge of things
for the universe is round, borders don’t define
an end. That is just, the way things run. A whole, an outskirt

a cusp. I’m seeing this slip of Mother Earth’s suckler, a part of this
on its own. Like all children it’s slipping from Terra as it defines.
Hopeful that once it pulls back it’ll outlive where it’s from.
No longer our shadow, our dust.
Glitter half-ring pulls me in: how far to touch
in this room, were I can’t go. Tuxedo cat stretches on glass.
I wonder how those markings, one bouncing off all rays, the other
albinism, a cover and an underbelly.

That moon is like so. We see the edge and the whole, sometimes no
thing. Shadows from electric light. I should not be able to see my African
statue outline, discreet sentinel. I should barely see anything. My eyes
were made for this system of slight light to sleep, emerging late after blaze’s day.

2.

In the heat and constructed billow of this harnessed lightening a device moves air,
pips when it self-sleeps. This may be when the last of these luxuries skitters
off. This may be when only open windows, candlelight cats’
eyes pierce movements, still shapes. The internet is forth, therefore McCoo

Davis, LaRue, Townsend McLemore presaged our number. In the Fifth it will again be
left to us after we’ve eaten all this ever-expanding and decaying tree of knowing.
A woodpecker’s stripes of red, black and white make holes for light, reflected
or initiated. All timed and that doesn’t mean things aren’t supposed to happen

don’t. Yet there have always been lodestars. Hair was Broadway, some of us sprinkled
in, then this Dogon-descended quintet sounded wholesome Black psychedelia
aspirational anthem. Ogotomelli in their woos, aspirational and blue. Billy’s growl
sparks, the sun’s system, permeating our hearts

A choir entices holy notes, heralding juncture of cut-out dross, encircling us, we
beam.