Astropoetica: Eclipse, by Kevin C. Little, Jr.

Annular eclipse viewed from Madrid, Spain on October 3, 2005 An eclipse cuts the constant of light,
shakes habitual dependency of sight.

The pendant shadow passes over,
rubs me dark.

I blunder in the night,
face the light
and know:      temporality,
                          an irony of meaning,
                          dichotomies of darkness
                          the habits of ego.

The face that moves     across my face,
a pale base crescent of tradition,
slides away into the new of shadow.
Neighbors leave their tvs’        glowing games with floating balls
to oooh and aaah                      the shining sidewalk’s sheen.
They are fat and scant of breath.
They pant with the exertion.
They fall on sofas           exhausted.

A dream guru steals into my murky sleep,
rises from the ground in a modality of flight,
his body twists asanas in air.
The new moon beams dim.
I beg this yogi for a mantra to
shave the memories from my head.

He chants          there is too much god here
he flows             from the green fountain
he drinks           the flower vine down
and         still     beams on.

Kevin Little is the poetic great-grandchild of Theodore Roethke. He lives in tropical Art Deco splendor in Sacramento, California with his partner, Andrew, a Papillon named Louis Vuitton and two Bengal cats. He supports his poetry habit by teaching high school English and choreographing obscure musicals.