Rumors of Existence
When things get really bad
I think of orbital mechanics
and the great hives of winter
stars. And flying forty thousand
feet over an icy planet
into the godless nature of god.
The little ferry boats of light
we sometimes glimpse below,
by circumstance of cloudlessness,
are, in reality, entire towns,
just as with the last candle flicker
of a memory before it is replaced,
sometimes by nothing more
than another passenger
adjusting her sleep, snuffing
the reading light above us, and
the dark whisper that rushes in.
The force of one’s will is simply
the force of the universe, no greater,
no less, and perhaps something,
though we cannot see it. It must exist.
The soft heaving of joy when it afflicts,
or the way a sob might transcend
our wretchedness. For me, let it be
the single dog pack of moonlight
that has made its way to earth, cut
by the thin, frozen fingers of the trees.
Darren Morris has published poems and stories. Another poem currently appears in New Ohio Review.