by Timothy Pilgrim

Ancient, leaky, trapped, I feign sleep,
fake-dream glaciers still exist,
turn purple at dusk, mate, darker ones
on top. Somewhere beyond the first stars,
galaxies dance around a black hole,
merge, slip slowly in together. 
Dark energy gorges on all that’s left 
of time, eager to devour space too.
Meanwhile, the universe surges south, 
tiny speck in a river undiscovered 
or named. Not to mention the ocean
where it goes. Here, a diligent spider 
spins its latest web on my ceiling, 
its shadow spinning a blacker one down 
the edge of night. Futile of me 
to conjure fiery passion, heat again —
afterward, the glow. Tomorrow, an equinox,
my tasks — stand eggs on end, recall
decades wasted, Earth damage done.
Better, I dive deep into my dream life, 
find a parallel universe not yet melted,
wending along in a mirrored stream.
My end — dangle guilty, alone, above
each sleepless, quantum moment.
Trag-ironic, especially when what I think
I know, I will forget too, wherever I go.

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About the Author:

Timothy Pilgrim, a Montana native, emeritus college prof and Pacific Northwest poet who loves Granny Smith apples, has nearly 700 acceptances from over 125 journals and other publications such as Seattle Review, Red Coyote, Sierra Nevada Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Northern Spy Journal and Santa Ana River Review; international journals such as Windsor Review in Canada and Prole Press in the U.K.; and anthologies such as Soliloquies Anthology in Montreal, Weathered Pages: The Poetry Pole and Tribute to Orpheus II, along with two books of poetry. See timothypilgrim.org for his poetry and mass media information.