Trailing triangles,
the lion crawls
Lonely, her throne empty,
yellow, abandoned,
the bruised widow moon,
arm covering her face.
Below, the horizon glow,
a sunrise unfulfilled.
Nodding, we race
in long arcs homeward,
Lost in this familiar famine,
Stone cistern of a sky.
Fly over the unseen stream
Under the spinning bear;
Overtaking, being overtaken,
So easily we avoid claws and doubts.
Home, home,
Hammered horizon-thin,
Where stars drown unheard,
and widows croak on deathbeds fearing lions.