Black streaks slather the sun. The sky’s tooth
has come undone, floats dirtward, away from us.
We follow it, night’s lacquer, until the sun bursts
black over the horizon so fast half of us char
before we find trees to block it.
The heavy horizon pulls the earth faster,
the sun gone in an hour. Now the toothless night.
We find the moon later that night. More pink
than white, it is soft in our hands—wet sand.
We tear it apart, tear the already broken moon
into pieces. For our mouths. For our pockets and hollows.
One of us (was it you?) discovers that wringing
the moon, like a neck, yields liquid. We quench.
The sun struggles at the edge all day, a day all dawn,
but cannot lift itself into the sky. No rise
or dusk. Finally the horizon frees itself
and the sun falls back out of sight.
We eat what’s left of the half-dead and dying trees,
walk in the dark and sleep on the ground in the dark.
With nothing to eat, we walk. With nothing else to find.
We decide to remain on the blackdark dirt
under the blackdark hole-strewn sky.
With nothing to watch, we wait. There is nowhere
to go, nowhere worth going.
We sleep, and as we sleep the horizon swells
on every side. What’s left shrinks.
We measure the remaining space by sleeps.
The edge is now four sleeps away, now three.
Two. Even the sky is squeezed, the once-scattered holes
grow closer, then together. A new moon.
One of us (was it all of us?) tries to reach it, to climb
through and out. But it is too far and we are too tired.
The horizon collapses on us
as we start to fall asleep. Into sleep.