From Ice and Dust
All summer long, a comet
streaks, star blown and cold,
as I walk, hollow boned
thin ribbed, a scarecrow loosed
upon the night, trailing cotton.
How elastic the hands once,
thick with boxwood and petunias,
a plump face blankly ignorant
of kneecaps and hips, their gray,
aching moonscape. In the dark
closeted sky, original dust returns,
its tiny, solid planet flashes
the same blinkered path always,
a brightness not consuming
itself, a body falling, falling
for miles, whole and unbroken.
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Featured image: Untitled by Cigumo at flickr. CC license.