Gravity pounds its little nails
Into the observatory's roof
Tonight; my eyes, lapping
At that holy grail, swim
Weakly in their tear-pits.
The night sky knows less
Of one sieving, open heart.
Tired of those rocks; fires —
Epiphanies, purposes,
Wonders, and hopes —
Turn to ash in this bluest
Atmosphere of all.
Sunlight makes it so,
Birthed the contrasts
That made the stars holes.
Days between wars
On everything I love,
Spent dreading the place
Where I see the would-be
Drink in wishful thinking
Thought into a god's face.