SHADOW PLAY

It’s 8 p.m., Mountain Daylight Standard Time,

                                                                       whatever that may be.

And the lodgepole pine trees start to flex their shadowy fingers

Across the meadow to the waiting back-lean of their brothers.

It’s 10 p.m. in New York, Eastern Daylight Standard Time,

                                                                              whatever that is,

And then the divisional waters,

                             the North Atlantic humping toward Greenwich,

Where time’s a still point.

                                             Or it’s not, arbitrary headwater.

The shadows don’t care, they keep on inching across the meadow,

Unaware they might be going backward,

                                                                       unaware

They might be seeping into themselves.

May the turn of the great star be with them,

                                                                  may it tangle their fingers.

In his suit of lights, the Matador comes forth,

                                                           Leo crouched in front of him.

Aries is gone, and Leo crouches in front of him.

No matter, the blade is deep

Over Seville and the sere foothills of Andalusia.

Out of the Lion scuttle many ignorant stars.

The Matador lifts his blade.

                                                   The heavens keep wheeling

Until the poor, stupid lion cubs

Are all that is left.

Time has disappeared the Matador, and rolled him into a truth.

And the Lion as well

                                     as he rises into the dark firmament.

—FGL