Hemisphere

The sun rose, today

on late-summer in a way

that made it seem

possible to pull down

myth as breath expelled

from a thinning sky.

In the season of yellow

butterflies that hang

like stars, in an afternoon.

Delicate litter under a sky

that clothes itself

as dusk when

night lifts

its legs over the trees,

and, in the city it is hard

to see the stars.

And the astronomer says, 

To see the stars

you must go

to the country, away

from the light

of man. Even 

one lamp

ten miles out

can block

a clear view

of Cassiopeia's shoulder, 

the great-stride

of the lumbering bear.

Spinning morning

from north to east

under her dome, she

charted the flit of evening

over the middle-Atlantic.

As I recalled, outside

a pair of Clouded Sulphur,

oscillating. Becoming

fan blades circling

the hearts

one of another. Never

meeting, just 

gathering warmth

on their wings, 

falling

toward some

indefinable

molecular hope.