These eyes trained on sky still guide wild flights by stars, set courses for migration at midnight––
But what can they find in the glow bleeding from the empire’s cities?
Still singing hallelujahs of nobody knows, forever-present notes that know what no hand grants, no thief can steal.
Reaching back to the original promise in the first split of atom from an original rib to give birth to the genesis of song––
In the space of a womb, a surrogate tomb for the still unburied,
long dead still––
singing unnamed solids behind these gates
the liquid river sings us––
still
singing
our home.