|The view of the aftermath of the SpaceX launch last night|
We carry empty syringes, sticky acrid sweet on our fingers later brushed on lips, inadvertent reminders, the yellow-gray soaked-through diaper balled up, the navy blue sleep pants with the red stripe at the cuffs, soaked in the seat, the home-stitched sheet-covered pad that she lay on, her socks and the sippee cup of juice left at the bedside. We carry these things down the hall, through a life, to let them go, but first we veer off into the bedroom and open the back door where the dog has been scratching and barking impatient to get back inside
The Coming of Light
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.