It ticks, the iris underneath: the heavy-lidded
eye in its leathered sac blinks open, mercurial,
at the slightest touch. So falls the sky in fable:
as a leaf, as a flutter of feathers, as an acorn
pinging across a table of rock. Fear is the room
where it all echoes; or love. A galaxy is only
a dark umbrella someone opens so rain can streak
the grass. When all the water’s gone, the ribs shine
dull silver. In the spaces far between are stars.
[LAG-signature date=”09 13 2011″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2011/09/13/159122013″]