A poem by Andrew F Giles

 
Astrology

You’d ordered it, the sky – unpacked

it at dawn, decanted the moon into your hipflask:

the things we are led to believe
 

stars grown in sleeves like flowers,

signs in a scrapbook, as in science.
 

The stratosphere arches its humpback,

that much is true, yawns

massively
        
                       black, blue,

throws suns across the deep like pool balls.
 

Suppose these were dangerous times,

endings that would bring

the sky down
 

& you’d just summoned a fireball that consumed

your hands & face & you said

look at me
 
 
Andrew F Giles has work in Ambit, Magma, Equinox, Ink Sweat & Tears etc. He edits Scotland’s literary arts & culture journal New Linear Perspectives and his article John Burnside’s Poetics of Failure: A Havoc of Signs can be read in the US journal JERRY.

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