Unfinished

Star tags appearing on a tuck of sky space; I’m balancing within it. How many times have I stood out here waiting, thinking it is not coming? Lost in the glow of the kitchen light shifting back and forth, forgotten as a wildness outside; the slow crank of earth and here I am, an extraterrestrial as the world continues to spin. A car drags itself along the dusk of road, catching an eye-spark in the soft night and I move in perpetual anticipation; a countdown forming in the clock of my heart. And it comes. It is awake; called out from the cliffside yet again; an alchemist’s calculated risk, look— it is still being held up by something; always such a shock that it has returned.

I go to the edge again and again,

Go to the river to taste but never cross

More than half way; 

On the bridge with rivulets rushing past the glinting gravel and a spread of stardust bracketing [mountain and mountain]. Again I wait, not knowing the exact place, the exact moment but come it must, as it always does. That pinpoint of artificial starlight; that polarised chip of sun reflected steady as a small boat paddling from one cliff to the other, flying toaster wings set to an offbeat orbit; periscope down. This time it appears over the tallest crest, above the great white headstone standing distant and sometimes illuminated in the late evening light. It has never touched that place before and tonight it shuttles far, far above, along a scratch of space; along its sacred passageway.

And it is very easy to become attached

To the experience; to judge everything

In the future against this initial taste

It was February and I had heard the news; it came finally with all the certainty of this little space craft chugging its weight across the gap from nowhere to nowhere. This evening I was deeper into the field, trying to get lost in a familiar place; the snow almost too deep to wade through. Totally alone, a smaller pinpoint against this gushing challenge of stars. I feel so small. Tonight it seems to be crossing with such effort; hanging unwieldy in the air for eternity, as if it is having trouble climbing down the ramp to the other shore, as if somehow it does not want to pass over this little slit of mountain and disappear. It hangs like a faded lantern, lighting the path to the other side; then quietly snuffs itself out. 

I decide to rise above it, become the sky

Solid like a mountain; my heart 

Expanding like it touches an ocean

One evening I found myself leaning towards him with my body pivoting in starlight. We were moving mechanically in time to the thrum, spinning outward; up and over. We were tuned in as one, as the slow wings gyred in time to subtle planetary flux. Some kind of exchange happened within us (but not quite revealed). Three minutes of celestial dance concentrated on the night’s bright highway. We forget about our bodies, we could be star stuff thrown out into the furthest corner of the universe, to be returned by a faithful satellite; swimming up there amongst trainers, bicycles and pylons, broken microwave ovens; all with nowhere to go. It feels good to be close to him. And here it comes; just another fly-by winging on its way; nothing we can do to stop it; a trajectory already fully-formed; at the midpoint between here and there, shaping the valley more than ancient glaciers could ever have done; carving the action again and again with our minds, never separate. We are radiographs of this place; corporeal radars recording every contour of waking stone, marching tecton.

When I do this, I must

Make myself a bonfire and burn up

Completely, leaving no trace 

I would write about last night but before that, I will write about the sky this evening, about how amazing it was; about how finally, I decided that this beat in my ears had to stop once and for all and how an act of letting go could become an appreciation in sunsets. First upon the Cirque, the deepest red I told myself I had ever seen coming from those stones; fired up with some otherworldly flame. Then turning to the West to be met with a spectacular show of lights; dust pyrotechnics; I think of angels and the clouds are wings ascending like everything is going to be okay. The moon is quarter full against a deep blue openness and I push it around with my thumb. Concrete on the hillside, that steady craft shoots out before no customary countdown, the chip of artificial moonrock punting its bow to the far summer country as it always does. I could do nothing but let it pass, smiling; I had no clue, it did not matter;