Cows have fallen asleep on your land.
Almost dark enough
for things from Venus to appear,
night blurs the warm
cellular hulks. Something is between them,
something with fanged eyes
and a hunger. The whispering mounds
grow louder. The grass shortens. You
stay calm among the blunders
of the earth.
For the third time the visitors of love
have crossed our galaxy
to your house
and brought their message.
When they speak to you, you believe.
War stops forever.
Everyone is in everyone, alive.
It would be better if you slept
or continued stacking dishes
by the kitchen window,
and saw your dead uncle’s
face steaming out of his grave.
But the light on both coasts is
failing, burning itself out in waves
far from shore and on the shrunken
beaches, like the body of a friend
that is cold. If it is yours,
Ollie, tell those creatures of the
bright planet I am waiting.
Even now I hear “Yes” spreading
out of the shadows of things
around me, long and clear from the
pasture of unnamed shapes.
© Stephen Berg