Waiting for Revelation

In a white cloak you must stare at an empty star.
On a dry rock you must wet your lips
and dream of leathery grass,
smelling the dew -
but there is no dew on this blue night:

Wormwood’s ghostly eyes intensify
and I’m oh so thirsty again,
as the suited men grin,
drooling prophecy with their rolling tongues.

Naked and cold,
you must stare at an empty star.

The Stars Lose Their Lustre

In my mind
our two galaxies collide
as the moon frost
sparkles up the crystals in your hair.
I want you to know that I thought of you as the sounds
in my head reached splendid cacophony,
geared only by the silence or their orbits:

The engine that moves the stars a little,
the sky that murmurs and slows a little in the cold
but for the ocean of blackness beyond.
I can hear them crying for intensity they’ll never again find -

Once the fires burn down
our eyes lose their lustre,
standing on the snowy precipice
where the holes of life are not so thick
in your calloused skin and mine:

I know we’ll never see a match again,
but let me hold you anyway…