Of Horizons
you mock death and religion as fantasies
covering for stark unknowables.
Yet here you are uninterrupted
a burdened sunset lasting half the night
beside a lake, the chatter of friends unheard.
A rumor of a friend’s death no one
notified you of, one falling into
a dark lake without a body, a cloud
of memories recycled in a hundred
directions, no suggestion of self
remains, no vampire or hooded saint
a death without religion unfolding
as a sunset; still lake no horizon.
The Dog Star 
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