Today's poem is by B. T. Shaw
We End, Like Galileo
With years came diminishing ability to focus
on objects at hand. Pen nib. Collar stud.
Ruby nest of squab bones on a dinner plate.
Behind, then, the distance failed.
Northern hills and eastern olive groves
lost ground until the vineyards vanished
in soft wash of green chintz and gold silk.
He charted each loss in its sidereal arc.
Until the tipped stars, too, emptied the glass,
opening the curtain on everyday dark.
Copyright © 2007 B. T. Shaw All rights reserved
from This Dirty Little Heart
Eastern Washington University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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