Over the Zodiac by Allan Peterson

Over the Zodiac 
Allan Peterson

Over the zodiac which doesn’t exist
are the stars that do, spaced out so each can howl
without bothering the others.
However large they are in their own vicinity,
here suns are pinpoints and the air is nervous with them,
fragile and jumpy.

All but the few dots meant to be a horse, a queen,
have healed over in the agglutinated dark,
unsaddled and dethroned.

This morning the house and the ocean
reassemble, the italicized passengers fall forward,
words come apart in our hands.


© Jon Zowalki




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