Peace comes late into
this settling night,
the fading pulse of day
this red spill of wine;
Orion.

I remember skies awash with stars.
there are fewer here,
Near urban glow, but still,
we tilt our heads back
to drink them in,
breathing into night breeze,
falling away from the day.

A flash of falling star could be
the streak of a long life
down the horizon.
The Big Dipper's angle spills water
and I'm not sure
my argument against the swift
strange progress of life
will hold up either.

Red Cab, almost bitter, so thick
you could almost eat it,
or mold it into
whatever we used to long for;
one thing real,
next to these stars,
bottle clenched in knotty fingers,
drained finally
as cold currents run miles
around the yard.

This deep black night,
these blistering stars,
these memories crowding in.
Toss the bottle now,
the night's young but old souls
need to sleep.