Lying on my Back
Lying on my back in the soft, green grass
The Sun in the West slowly hides
Beneath the horizon, but the clouds glow red
To alert those watching his escape.
Nevertheless, the fiery ring of gold slips away
Like a fleeing ship on the edge of the world.
One by one the suns of distant worlds
Come out from the veil of blinding light
Created by our own jealous sun to
Oppress the dreams of lonely stargazers.
The pinholes of light start to form pictures in
dots
As if God himself were pricking holes in black
wrapping paper.
©1999 thomas busbee
