May 11, 2010

What Stars

Written by Justin Runge

Read by Matthew Nienow

Halogen bleaches
night’s black fabric,
whitewashes the dust.

Redeyes jet the milk
like backswimmers,
and their breathings

become a landscape.
The open-mouthed
and force fed tunnels

scattering aerosols.
The illuminated city,

What is washed out—
stars, slow satellites
pivot behind scrim.

In a public park, I lay
flat like a photograph
developing, adapting

to dark like Purkinje
in his geranium field.
I should not be out

so late, in the least-
lit suburban nook.
Restless and curious,

I run a long line
until it adapts to dirt,
until I, in tall grass,

lost and a trespasser,
jump the barbed wire
binding some acerage,

a radio tower, tumble
and gasp on my back
at the baroque ocean

overhead, and to no one,
say I want to be closer,
and climb the latticework.