Still There
The night mysterious with heat.
Its sky huge now with stars.
The people sprawled in ragged groups
their voices quiet yet audible,
what do they say? These constellations
are indistinguishable from where we sit.
A slight wind murmurs in the cypresses
set there to turn it back.
The distances among the clusters
are wildoat grass the sun’s rays slowly leave.
What do we know. It ceases,
others come to see as much as we.
Those stars are me,
these sounds. Tears blur
& bring them to a field of points.
David Bromige
Reprinted from Desire: Selected Poems 1963-1987
