its rays across the grateful landscape.
Ragged mountains lift up to meet
it, plains puff out chests, the sea
a carnival of light, ice packs
bristle, glaciers growl. Time spins
on a coin. Horizon shakes its
dirty mat over cityscape, over glass
and concrete conspiracies -
roads burn fuses into nightways.

Rubbed off sky exposes an
undercoat of white that is really
fuzzed, mid-day heat. Birds
change over shifts. Things settle.
Shadow drops under eaves, tier
by tier. Melaleuca is a snowstorm
of bloom in a backyard.
Planes arrive from here and there;
holiday makers, the injured
and dead, today’s interchangeable
destines. A night club blows up
in a tropical paradise. In the
slipstream above the stratosphere,
fear drifts about the globe
                as deadly pollen.

The day combustible as a
nightclub. Destruction works
in big, blunt gestures. An
explosion is no rediscovery, it’s
return without guide to the
deepest sink hole from whence
hell’s laughter issues. A
sucking into nothingness; void
behind the twin masks of
light and dark. Not repetition
but continuance. Pre-beginnings.
A precise point of death
qua death, not infinity but
limitlessness, pain’s spectrum.

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