When we have raked the gravel over
tombs
into
a single desert under the red sun,
and
all lie below gray ash and waste
except
for the bleached bones of Ezekiel
hoping
to reboot green in a tender Tigris garden,
what
will the silver eye do next?
What
lovers will it bless and make fertile
once
Verona has seen the death of all Capulets
and
the stone of jungle Buddhas has been chanted
into
dharma dust that is fine and gray and lunar,
a
mirror for the last surviving lens
circling
the dead wheel of gainless Gaia
rolling
through dark matter and the void?
A
sonnet without rhyme, poetry sans love,
the
inspiration of foam and pull and tides,
the
moon will wander over wasted time,
over
the planet’s crafted heat-death crime
and
perhaps decide to drift into deeper night
in
search of a watery speck where children play
and
seek inspiration from a heavenly muse,
children
who evolved but never lit the fuse
and
make love beneath the cool of round white light.
~William Hammett
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