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Cosmology
Christopher Buckley
Most days I find myself
considering the encrypted
clouds, though, while everything
is blue through the boughs
of heaven, I know the stars
will hardly spell out
our names in specks
across the enormity（巨大，暴行） of night.
We have these bodies
from stars, second-hand,
a diminishing（逐渐缩小的） quotient
of dust lagging behind
the soul, beggar with a cart --
told sticks, furniture
piled on. . . .
You're tired,
your bones positioned on
to remember where you left off
taking notes, floating
suppositions, a few
unlikely alternatives,
before they fall, like
the last remaining cloud
into the sea,
before the stars
scar your thoughts
and the moon freezes
the lemon blossoms,
another vague（模糊的） brilliance2
abandoning you . . . .
before dawn
where you can see
the back of the sky
shouldering empty space,
confirming nothing --
the dulled earth
just another rock,
where we came from --
bunched up now and
heading off. . . .
You've come this far
with holes in your shoes,
leaves in the pockets
of your coat -- all you have
finally to show for hunting
the proposition of God
in the burning clouds,
in the invisible web
of air, in the one
Your only hope now
is to not bear false witness
against the sea, the unknowable
scattershot of stars.
for Jon Veinberg
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