This grass-less green field
a flat-earth society
dedicated to straight orbits
striped comets
colored moons
No life upon
but surrounding fire-breathing gods
extend their reach
with slender, polished sapling intent
Punctuating each edict
with white purity
a round dream
sent spinning into each
galaxy of opportunity
completed with a short fall
into one of six black holes
the silent jurors
They follow the numbers
these gods
down from plenty
up from none
until the last signal of eternity
is sighted, aligned
a bargain struck
straight into the nowhere
that ends the game
someone pays
the other accepts
The next group places their tokens
on the rim
of the rectangle field
The night is younger
than the universe that envelops it
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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