Eleven Strangers

ELEVEN STRANGERS

This pristine place bears no name;

Collected faces are in constant orbit

While I in dark material remain.

 

Eleven strangers bear the weight

Of a flawed world, not unwilling,
Though unwitting. Like so, arrayed.

 

One cedes space, then another,

And my small, fine world erodes,

Disintegrates into emberous love.

 

Eyes fold in color—reds

Touch soft black blinds, pinch

At sinking thoughts, forget.