Before the Antique Milky Way Vanishes
Now light years into my anecdotage,
the path is confected from the breath of angels...
off-season ghosts in Old West towns,
moonlight on tea cups in shuttered souvenir shops.
Somewhere a man cardiac-lurches from his gas mower,
leaves window light to glare on crystal-green grass.
Somewhere a woman stares up at a hoaxy smile
on a billboard, pleased with stolen motel towels.
Hubble will soon teach us we live on a mirror-flat
heart-shaped cosmos, dotted with full lipsticked lips...
frigid kisses here and hotter-'n-fire kisses there.
My spastic throwing hand grips eternity's doorknob.
Bourbon night, heaven-gallop stardust horses!