I. Constellations have gathered
about a point
of implied dexterity,
within which they drip
through a cerebral fissure
and onto the summits of
Spanish hills and the young girls
teetering
in red lace gowns.
II. Sun drops have gathered
into a morphing of
hallowed radiance,
into the glitter
sprinkled
on the tabletop of the ocean,
and gently caresses
the face of the oak leaves
while asking if they will dance
just one more time.
III. The nightingales have gathered
around the bottom
of the brightest sycamore tree,
and here they whisper,
pleading
with the Earth
so that She may recede,
to present fresh soil
from which they came.
IV. The bricklayer has gathered
in front of the fireplace
as the shoes on his feet
pierce the carpet with crumbled dirt,
he is a man of very few words,
they say,
but as the firelight twitches
and scatters
within that artificial cave,
he has found the words
to ask himself:
how long will the fire burn?