Though the exact where of it
has burrowed away,
the diminishing light,
like a tiny bulb nestled
in a frosted glass bowl,
like a glowing egg cradled
by a monstrous hand,
filtered upward through holes
in a black, steel disc,
resembling a hat flattened
by unbearable weight.
The pattern on the lowering clouds overhead,
in focus, then out, circled slowly,
a wheeling constellation hovering
over the wayfarer briefly paused
at the portal opening on a teardrop sky;
an artifact installed ages ago
for the pleasure of people long gone--
size, race and gender unknown.
The traveler passes anonymously by,
crossing mysterious ground,
but caressed in the moment that follows
by warm nocturnals bearing
the scent of untended roses.
Draped in robes swirled by the wind,
but soon to be shed,
the wayfarer comes
to the end of the sands;
stands naked at the edge,
toes drinking the lap
of the primordial sea,
awaiting whatever will come.
