Solstice: "The Sun is the Same in Relative Way"

It's too late.  The stars
might as well be ashy
remnants spinning
in Einstein's ether.
Even Upstate New York
is far away.  The days
disappear like salt in a glass
of water.  And by
my own admission
it's always dark, the greasy
city or the thick
woody suburbs.  Love's
savage secret is
the assassination
of all other possibilities
and a mere release
of molecules--that
you and I could be
sitting somewhere
comfortable as flowers.
You don't seem different
but I've changed
a thousand shirts
over the years.  You
seem to know
what’ll I say.  There’s a

permanent darkness etched in me
not the result of the
moon shedding its
million stony tears
nor the sky not showing
me what I need to know.
In the night
when the summer
shadows are thick
with darkness
on each lawn
I would like to meet
you under a red maple
at midnight, sit in
the thick bluegrass
cross-legged, barefoot just
waiting for Cygnus

to rise, to remove that darkness

for the Summer
Triangle to shape the sky.
For we are as fleeting
as the wind, moments
for the blind hot stars
to peer at and wonder.