We forget how much distance
makes up our parlance,
these mannered habits of spit-shined
speech we would spend to measure
these darker stars, the forgotten
cross of some “T,” the unseen line
that makes shapes of so much
spilled salt and dull luster.
Al the crowds around us
seem to boom and sing, towering
above the smothered tree-line and
those distant fleeing hills,
though once amongst that forest
giants steal the sun,
while weaving through those mountains
will waste most of a long-stemmed day.
How are we to know what burns
the brightest when everything ends
measured in the millions?
Once perspective is forced upon us
we always suspect there is a further
purpose just astride the horizon,
the transient magnitudes
waiting to be unveiled,
like ideal forms huddled in the ether,
like those reasons why we know
we must be loved.