Waiting for Orion
     

       The October sky - 
       a lattice 
       of ink and light
       folded, over and over,
       upon itself - 
       mingled specks of heads and limbs,
       swords and centaurs clustered,
       each 
       a sphinx
       of borrowed parts and pieces
       lost in my untutored eye,
       an eye 
       that fails to find a point of purchase,
       to shape these lights to any schoolbook paradigm.
       So it is, with stars, I wait,
       attending to the eastern sky
       where two months hence
       the hunter will arise,
       all tunic, 
       and sword about to strike,
       and by his light 
       set each star in its place, 
       lend names and reason to the December night;
       this hunter from the eastern sky
       will take us to the prey.



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