Rick Kempa

Dull dull dull

are my eyes at first—

and why wouldn’t they be?

The city is dull.

Even the home street,

with the birds’ daily circuits

and the procession of the flowers

and the mailman

and its inhabitants is,

if not dull, predictable.

 

And so I follow

the beam of my headlamp

around camp.

I arrange my things, I eat,

and the pleasure I get

from having my things in place

satisfies me.

Or so I think.

 

Meanwhile,

the balustrades of Church Rock

vault overhead, a bulwark

against the galaxies,

a silent bell summoning

the hard-of-hearing to prayer.