by Nate Maxson
A teaspoon of dark matter,
What I’m here to gather in my eventuality
All the pianos nobody ever learned to play
Are a theory the mass of a white sun
Their equations in my gears
What I can sing with, without a voice
Compressed to an ivory clatter
In a space as big as – something in my eye
I’m calculating the weight
Of a red night sky written in disappearing ink
The heft of it,
Looping and turning
Like ashfall or mad bats in the spring
A grand hibernation in the rearview mirror,
Now the red land comes awake
An Engine vanished into the air
And the blood black,
Ebony vein
The vapor trail is soon to follow
[Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.]
PØST 