The Sky a Blank Page
by BJ Buckley

Across which the wind records
its small and large
deliberations,
a blue or pale paper
so vulnerable
to the erasures of cloud,
erratic punctuation
of torn leaf
and wing—
how the spilled ink of evening
obliterates all
the complex sentences
of afternoon,
then the dark
stained book burnt
in its entirety
by moonlight, by cold spark
of stars, and you—
as the air,
insubstantial, as this whole
day's heaven,
flown.




 

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