Carina Nebula’s pastel mists clog
with molecular gas and dust forming
globs of brown watercolor stretched like dogs
pursuing a fleeing man, their storming
chase seeming to ford a fog-drenched freeway,
distant stars flashing like headlights of cars,
lost but crawling steadily forward. Say
that human silhouette so light-years far
from us is Francis Thompson’s spirit. Once
more he lives his poem, dashing through space,
his tremendous Lover joined by dark clones
renewing the race, faithful rhythmic pace
and vision required of all art. His fate
assured, one arm points toward a glowing gate.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2008
