eyes of the galaxy
shimmering through ozone layers
depleting.

occult particles
floating curving spiraling
to the zenith of patience.

finite thoughts
trying to grasp infinity
in the blade of grass
pointed upwards past the last star
        men in Sunday best
        two-tone shoes
        red bandannas
        knotted nicely
        across graying temples

        are spread-eagled
        on grasslands green
        yellowing watching
        the receding depths.
        do they remember
        the big bang of whispers
        the black hole of conscience
        the gravity of indecision?

the ecstatic long-gaze
in search of singularities
will surely dim our eyes
to the horror on earth.

and yet-
these days of slaughter
will open our eyes
and set us free to fly.