The ghost of twelve hours
mapped out
on each compass kiss
of Pangea proper
after an eight-century shift
it’s only odd echoes
and creaking knees
plotting the course
of a good stretch and crack
colors softly fade light into presence
forever ensnared by polar extremes
I always knew
there was a simple plan
embedded at
the heart of chaos
I chased it with blitzkrieg enthusiasm
up to the wounded summit of annihilation
gathering by degrees of experience
the lessons necessitated by this game’s host
and then we dance
upon the bones
of all our yesteryears
piled in the design
of a bridge
whose only purpose is fulfilled
in the crossing over
and then we screech and hoot
at the full moon
of our born-again romance
etched by the spell
of a love
whose sole weapon is an arrow
aimed precisely at the sun
