—for a sculpture by Walter Allward
In the hours after dusk,
we deduce he plots the path
of distant suns, waits
unabatedly
for Antares to explode,
its cradled remnants
to feed five fetal stars,
or stares expectantly
at the halved or crescent moon,
hoping to behold
a crater’s new creation,
amid the burst
of meteor impact.
At the pinnacle of noon,
we can’t surmise the subject
of his gaze, always skyward, note
the sun should bring his eyes
to squint and narrow, fancy
if he’s witnessed
every shape and sort of creature
in the clouds,
wonder if he’s worried
about the big one,
the asteroid that’s due
to smite the Earth, if the flesh
of what he emulates
follows the fate
of dinosaurs,
praying that some God
will part his lips
if he should spot it,
beseech us both to kiss
then run for cover.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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