After Love

Somewhere dimly the Jupiter Symphony is playing,

carried through the window on a breeze,

speaking surely of starlight and an old god,

the planet where his dark eye moves

among titanic clouds, counting

feathery comets as they wander by

like angels, like the air among the grass

becoming dew. And the crickets sing

in twilight where children linger

unimaginably in shadows

long and heedless, as they can.