Charles Randall Stanfield
He made the sound that stars make, rushing through
The sky, my sky at least, that one inside
My chest. My ribs contain celestial blue,
That wounded blue that’s made when stars collide
(Just two of them) when crashing there within
My heart. Men used to think the music of
The spheres occurred in places where no sin
Existed. Now we know that music’s love
Persists in harmonies and discord when
Two friends attempt to love each other’s souls
(Or souls and bodies). It is often then
That they can know the source of sagged black holes.
My man and I made rushing sounds like breath —
Asthmatic breath — till God took him in death.