Love has no moon sun or star
to glim the dark of hopelessness that frays
this atmosphere to void when you are far
from the universe of my foolish wan.
All light there is is only darkest mar,
smudge blankness, along the vacant ways
oblivioned love might pilgrim on
to reverence in the galaxy where you are.
Ah, frivolous comet, the ache when you’re gone–
the waitful watch of horizons–wants an instrument
to calendar when you might dawn on
this planet you so blithely circumvent.
Is there no hope this mere satellite
might find hope of your glimmer in his night?