and spin into lines that make sense
in this fevered moment, but will later
read as the impassioned words of another –
madman, prophet, troubled soul, friend, lover, murderer.
Like Jupiter, I am now poised, stationary,
beginning my retrograde motion back in time.
That king planet’s eastern journey turns west.
Or so it appears. I’m reverse orbiting,
hoping to undo some things done counterclockwise.
This is the work of darkness – not
just night – but that other lacking time
when light is unseen. It is chiaroscuro.
Without art. Under an arch of lamentation,
these three days have been midnight unmoving.