I’ve had this lovely poem stuck in my head for a while now, so I thought I would share.
Starpainters by Gordon Downie
The myth is neither here nor there, from the air.
Just blue lake stains and purified, parcelled squares:
a crazy quilt of spearmint, of mustard and honey tones;
a scuffed-up kitchen floor
of tiles on top of bones with a big trap door.
Towns down diagonal lines disappear and drop out of sight into the night
beyond the national night, and underneath the grit and glare into unfettered nothingness and thin
as herds of clouds lazily graze on thermal sighs of delight,
The Starpainters are taking over now,
their scaffolding is in its place.
your anesthesiologist tonight is washing up and on her way.