O hushed September evening while
the sea gulls over the cornrows sail
make the night's dark and deepening hours
regale us with all the stars can show.
Unveil one light in a periwinkle sky:
one high above the mountain peak,
one lower down near the airplane's streak.
Lure us into your pleated charms,
near the lake's edge by dry rush beds,
guide us to a soft repose.
A flitting eyelid is all
between your promise of dreams
of a moon-enthroned god and a red
pulsing beacon of Reason's flight.
And into the night of your silent song,
bring us one upon one to throng to the beating
of moth wings and the long slow wail
of the train on the track and the wind's growing gale.
If not for the ache of human remiss amid concrete walls
and financial abyss,
if not for the chains of civilized shame, then for the love of hope's regain,
lead us but slow to walk beneath the navy blue wealth of space
punctured with light years away constance, and prophecy,
a gaggle of swirling flames
that dance in the length of Cronos' beard and promise us hope's regain.