The stars make love,
unravel, and talk
about the hallowed ground

above the placid atmosphere;
moons night lodge and the clouds
that chase their sister

the length I must go,
rushing toward the horizon
from the zenith, the sun

keeping them on the outside
and charging through the barricades
from behind, fighting the heritage

they were born to. In dawn
struggling to clear their throats
against the cold

dust that caresses the relics
crowding my living room: Mothers Day 72,
my tenth birthday, and Christmas 86;

all the faces staring toward the blue
chair where I sit with my passions
and penance, the music swelling overhead.