Then David Bowie Died: A Birthday Cento

 

We listen from outside
And so we closed our eyes

Considering how a subject becomes an object without voice

I wake thinking like a manifold

A starburst compass points me to the last light.
Or certain, bright apocalypse--

Didn't we always know there was grieving in Fred Astaire's dance?

Earth, you are a ghost maker.

(There are such mysteries to reconcile.)

I think of horses when I see you.

My antenna farm tingles.

I'm still waiting.

-Paula Cisewski