by Gideon Burton
Then comes the signal -- not the one you'd hoped
would beacon something better -- yet it comes,
as though you hadn't watched and waited, scoped
the landscape, felt the seasons tightly spun,
the layered hours numbing you, your eyes
gone dry and red and stinging, blurring, wide
in fright to miss a comet crossing skies.
And yet what comes is what you want to hide,
to dampen, chasten, fasten, bring to rights.
Where is the fog uncurtaining the land?
The sunrise cresting hills with sudden light?
The trumpets heralding arrivals grand?
You mark it, know it, wishing otherwise,
the sign that you must welcome and despise.
Photo: flickr - exoskull
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