The Watchers

we all-seeing angel’s figments
celebrating night’s desire, desire
and other heavy human aspects
like lust and doom’s anticipation—
we visit but by morning heave
our dreamless, smoke-steam
mutterings at the air, at pine-
sweet forest’s aether and its
swirling vegetable exhalations.
We, our quincunx starbourne
coffins silent enter astral
ambiguity; we have felt enough,
and thought volumes about
the soul’s hard science—sleepers
see us through night’s milky way
and meet us there—it’s not far,
it is where we, inside thought’s
object dwell instead of passive
pressing at the afterimage of
our departing fate—we watchers
cannot will, not in God’s good sense,
but we hover, we sweep, we consent.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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