Clamor of the old crystal radio,                   
murmurings through hushed ruin of plastic clouds,
horizon, red tin plate glowers in the eroding sunset.
 
We hide under a stretch of green,
celebrate the cushioned moon in all her flattery and pomp.
 
She appears frozen in the depths of time,
a prisoner of night ’s tides spun out of wax dreams.
 
And what of you and I swallowed up
in the tongue of the breaking light?
 
This blunt moment of hope when rivers and mountains,
glaciers and forests despair of our ever returning
to the arc of the lost wilderness.
 
Translation of spirit survives.
 
In the darkest varnish of night,
we inhabit the possible everything.