I recede from the visible universe
in the opposite direction to the Moon,
the blunt scythe harvesting nights,
while the endless agony of gravity
leaks the lost alphabet of stars
in which sunrise will be written.
The waters curling in the air
disturbs the withered horizon,
still flickering, still hissing,
and its calm, unwinding murderer.
Darkness, perhaps, is the true fire,
burning all echoes that wouldn't stop.
It is the edge that we wouldn't cross,
that we ought to smelt until it glows.
I cannot fathom an ending to this fear,
I the bleeding shell played by tides,
I the sand castle melting in the foam,
I the vanishing footprint with no name,
I the drop of steam exploding in the surf:
the fear of being lost;
the fear of being found;
the fear of running too fast;
the fear of flying too high;
the haunting fear, perhaps,
of not fearing enough.
The moon unleashes upon me its wake of dreams,
like an oracle that foretells the end.
[In the face of the endless free fall
shaping our universe, what is one to expect?]
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