8AM
Even as daylight eclipses dawn,
dew freezes over, with frigid footsteps
The sun shifts into a new age
& it is ripe for a visit to the astrologer
enter the fated tarp, its insides
as black as tar that rises from fallen stars
but leave empty-handed, without any
inkling of what new constellations to pursue
Final destination: the milky void
of an imitation galaxy, There is no glory
to be found on this lonely rock, no stars
to bless the hearth with
By afternoon, the slumbering fruits
would have been knocked from their trees
by familiar breezes
so bade farewell to the pack of city-dwelling wolves
& wander, free of divine threads
Cover Photo by Maria Orlova.