last day

with no more flurried haste
to overtake each second
like passing cars that double their intent
like the shuttering delay of any camera click
like photographic negatives heaped into a many-layered spill
and knowing all these things will outlast me
just as neon colours fade
but how the rushofwings
means
there are g u i d e s
who populate dark solitudes of flight
and, steadfast like a morning star,
shed light along Borgesian plains
for "those who stand across
the four corners of the earth
so that it does not blow away"
while neither filling any kind of space
nor enclosing its intent
but gently drawing some new thread
from sleep to grace
within the sightless spool
of this first night