great expectations

my calloused post seems ineffective, i am
sentry to the stars. they give me life
when i am darkest.

no stars tonight. the cutting-room floor
is shifting, abandoned mont st. michel
i could see you thousands of
years empty, ghosts in unobserved
sanctuaries. and i could feel your lower
lip like it was yesterday.

things are never righted, they are controlled.
and it leaves me feeling like gatsby's funeral
observed and unattended
when you're dying in america at the start
of the millennium
you are alone.

must be why i cling so hard to hope.