Halfway North

This world is a sepulchre,

this world is our tomb,

cradling the bones

of whoever was,

and whoever is,

and perhaps

whoever shall be;

This world

holds us all fast

as it surely weaves

through the shroud of stars,

the cloak of the Milky Way –

And even when

we’ve good and ruined this Earth

and have snuffed out our own light,

it will keep us –

the candle stubs and ruins of us,

our scars and silenced dreams;

It will carry us around the sun

like a book of Psalms

it never learned how

to read.