how galaxies form

Something on the tip
of the universe’s tongue
no more than an unclaimed
memory: a vanished recollection
that picked up a few

carbon atoms, like sticky-burrs
on its pant leg, on the way
through some asteroid belt

where it began to accumulate
the stuff of it, mass, hording
the entire periodic table
and packing every room
to the ceiling with it, no order
to it, no time to sort it out
the spiral arms of a neglected hallway
closet, packed full and slinging
merciless gravity waves

like a kleptomania of the cosmos
or, something else, it’s just on the tip
of everyone’s tongue

Hackberry Moon

The untenable bloat
of a star-fed night
the belt of blackened sky
finds the end of its catches
and drawers, breaches the opened

Window of evening
baring to the plebeian fields
a pimpled moon—abruptly
   speeds away toward the dawn
rattling what remains

Of leaden, time-bound constellations
in a hooting, waxing mood
pranking the polished mirror
where the cosmos appear—

Did you see that, dear?


I can believe what I see
if I can believe that I’m seeing it,
but the sun is too much
the work-a-day schmo to worship.

I climb over that ridge
in the morning too, and
nobody thinks anything of it.

True, sometimes I’m late.

Image is from a pinhole eclipse viewer that I am still working on, even though the path of totality will not pass directly over this errant human head of mine. It will pass well to the north of me, and godspeed to these heavenly bodies, especially the moon, who will single-handedly blot out the sun and then quietly stand aside as everyone whispers, “oh, solar eclipse!”