with our cosmos eyes

relentless in our film noir lives—

a search for meaning as

rich as techni-color.

it is fragile beauty,

this not knowing;

painted egg-shell delicacy:

white blended into gray,

soft shadows of being,

words stumbled over imperfectly.

this yearning I feel sometimes:

you know it too?

violet ambrosia cloys at the back of my throat,

tastes like deep summer dusk.

we do not imagine

(or if so, circumventingly):

instead

we long, bend, ache--

looking ever forward
with our cosmos eyes

blinking bright stars

into both death and being.