The Great Wide Open

I hope the moon rises the same in Colorado,
when it arrives by the smoke of a jetline
from a Ouachita jitterbug.

It seemed so huge and assuming
in undone lace
and wanton leather bow.

As the sun burrowed in its blood in the West
and golden horses galloped to its set,
the transcending soul traversed the violet plane to the satellite's flank
and consummated with it in the twilight, birthing a red-stained flaxen pool in the sky...

And when the phantoms disappeared,
for the day had been eclipsed,
a waling grew from desperate minds.
They were wrestling in the falling shadow.

The pool forked into many streams,
and those became the stars.
And once dry and strung up above by the current of the cosmic Void,
it became a lighthouse for the remaining ships riding tenuous cloud sails
to dissipate
in apathy's shore.