When I stare out my bedroom window
in the haze of insomnia
I expect a smooth and ever
as if Jackson Pollock had
painted with light upon the sky.
But I am met with a dusty dissipation.
Sulfurous synthetic light.
Part of my heart wonders if
darkness still exists.
If somewhere on this glowing Earth
exists a dome of black speckled with
twinkling corpses of long dead
stars and a band of translucent
milky space matter. I hope when my eyes
close for the final time, we are reunited,
as the dark wraps its cold
and glittering arms around me
like a mother holding her
long lost child.