The Comet



     He is not like the others, who all crane
     their heads entirely back, or lie face up
     on sleeping bags and blankets in the rocks,
     some snuggling to ward off the autumn chill.
     He watches, silent, with his head bent low,
     the distant stars' reflections swimming on
     the glassy surface of the lake below.

     A brilliant flash across the sky, then ooh's
     and aah's, except from him, who stands and thinks
     how he could launch a space craft up precisely
     before a comet hurried by, and land
     somewhere upon its rugged rumbling crust
     to travel to a distant unknown place
     where he could be at one with ice and dust.
  
     All of a sudden he runs toward the cliff
     and jumps into the water far below.
     A clear white streak, above and underneath
     his falling silhouette, fades just before
     his feet plunge through the icy cold, the lake
     a mess of shimmering night through which, ten stars
     away from where he dropped, his small head breaks.


Luke Meisner