At the Wake of the Singularity

At the Wake of the Singularity

The hook was set deep.
This we remember.

Yet sweet the bite still
rivers beneath tongue 
and tips it with Names.

Stretched out on the half-ruined,
in unlit clearings, we sing
to extinguished constellations.

Heads back, we sing into night.

Of gardens at two ends
not places but times.

Heads down, we comb and we knock.

A satellite falters on the wire
and goes black in the belly of Cetus
as the orchard slips slowly into
the uncontrollable substance of forest.

Handfasted together,
in sight of no one,
stitching respite against
the sadness.

We coalesce.
The dark between stars.