The night watchman idles
a long pattern of patrols.
The yard of tektite approaches
the terrestrial, dim occurrence
of certainty. Beyond a rift
of limited sky,
our lady of steel girders
scrimmed in plasmatic relief.
No where the moonstick shattered
into trees. This
could be the day we wonder
and never return. Soon
the mistresses
of social grace will arrive
in photonic gowns, disabuse
the dancing star.
We approach a continuum
of thought. A gin comeliness.
Diligently watching the cyclic,
diligently reassuring the crew.