We begin as night watchers
bringing news and lanterns;
we end with the guilt and relief
of a called-off search.

There is no fresh light,
no star to see in real time;
everything is always moving
away from everything else.

We are eager for storms to arrive,
then depart, then arrive again;
our calendars are full
of pasts and futures only.

We close our eyes and shades
so as not to sense the speed
or see the dots of light below
scattered like salt on a road.

We follow the map of a spider
straddling a hemisphere;
we have become pixels again,
spectators of each other’s lives.

Selected byNolcha Fox
Image credit:Jessica Kantak Bailey

Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.