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.
andotherpoems.com 