These Are Different Fates
by George Mooredancing on light, swept up in their own wonder.
The vision they present is what we would hope to find
at the center of a gallaxy, that bright intensity
that situates the darkness, opens out, even
as the darkness so often wins, and the light, a point,
becomes a thread, a streak of traveling photons, spun
out to a certain length, cut off again by the night.
And so the three are one, but three, each angling
toward the immediate moment, each
traversing the now, the light that holds them up,
the last look back that threatens salt, all
together or apart, they travel one direction.
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