The hemispheres, parting equatorially,
deflate in darkness, cool, then spin.
“Don’t follow me,”
a last, pegleg pilgrim mutters,
purrs or hums. What’s next?
“Donna Summer” bolds the signage
at one oasis, formerly Antarctica,
no one reaches. “Air raid,”
hisses the space around a central
glinty totem who, classically aloof
from me + you + her + him
but doomed to hear it all again,
turns and turns like any god
faking rescue or couvade.
No strobe from the second lighthouse
which, since waves and world have fused,
ditched its keeper. Are there natives?
What would anybody breathe here,
fossilized, as they seem to be,
in black macadam (feel it give)?
At least what we loved lies here together.
Unreachable. But something stings
like unredeemed electricity.
So scratch on, constellation’s dew claw
or jumpy little pin of wind.
Hum along with waking voices
who don’t insist where home may be:
“It’s sweet (so sweet) to die in the sea.”