Smoke

Solar flares scorch the galaxy. Stars swirl counterclockwise, confused. The world is white on white, orbiting the path of Prometheus’ blanching fire. I walk beneath the night sky, aimless as ocean currents. Endless surging, retreat. Do stars guide, conscious of space and time? They carry no message or telos, evergreen. The poem rises on its own. I write it as singeing dictation. It burns my ear and eye. I will weave garlands of prairie grasses. Rectangular plains carry no star. My voice withers, inflamed. Literature strains toward a flourish of smoke. Not even the poet inhales.