Returning from high walls
where we knew no peace,
we enter the dark field.
Night leans in and holds
our shoulders with such gentleness
we shiver awake.
Beneath the belly of a bear,
the warrior’s belt, eyes
slaked on the scaffolding
(which is no scaffolding)
of impartial stars, we are
recalibrated – significant
and inconsequential as pine cones
in the plantation
the crescent moon
blinks and weeps over.
Isn’t this where we must dwell,
this looking: eyes naked,
short-sighted; hearts open
to skylines we didn’t choose.