Friday, July 2, 2010

Tuttle Imagines Diaspora

When I enter in to that moonless night
by the gleaming of a billion dead stars
I will remember how rare Earth was
how bright and full and nearly impossible.

Over spindly tall grass and red clay I will tread
where hackberry and mesquite glance over my head
the way to my descent.

Like sanctuary for exile among indifferent space
mine will be a better sacrament of praise—
I will keep it close, and safe
when I enter in

where dead stars live.

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