By Len Kuntz
When you tell me all the heroes have been hung, I curl up with the moon and hold its shivering belly to my chest, leaving Orion headless behind us.
We lay like that, buoyant and unexpectant, dwarf stars scratching the soles of my feet.
Below us there is a smoldering I can see from here, the perforated smoke bruising what was once home, covering the globe like a tattered black tarp.
It’s alarming how far rancid fumes can stretch, like soiled fingers grasping for a hold just out of reach.
Luna nuzzles my cheek, her face wet with unsung songs, head clanging from bells that cannot be unrung.
Like this, we rock through ages. Watching. Waiting to see if something, anything, might push through the scorched earth. Sprout. Begin anew. Make us believe again.