Davin I

You could have been content in the sun – 
at thirty-one.
Unfolding a camp chair at the lip of the sandpit on the sixteenth hole, 
taping ISO 12312 lenses to your frames.
You and your brother pushing tripods into mud, 
assessing filters, discussing apertures,
the three of us under the blue, leaning back, gazing up, 
moon interceding light
at the precise point of our nexus,
silencing sparrows,
blending shadows
beneath a single black hoodie,
transfixed by incandescent halo,
enraptured –
pine
pond
breath becoming
negative space.
Three minutes, sixteen seconds,
celestial bodies suspended between silence and din.

One hour, thirty-six minutes,
your body suspended between
cervix and divination,
pushing silence into breath.
You crowned thirty-four days early, 
quietly emerging beneath the fluorescent halo,
at the apex of our existence.
You were gold skin and hair,
Encased in blue light,
a tiny mask shielding your eyes from
the spectrum that could damage sight –
heat
milk
howl sating
negative space between
lull and martyr,
eight years before his blackout,
thirty-one years before yours.
You, the luminary subject of our gaze,
our three bodies suspended between 
sun and moon.

You could have found resurrection
in love, dismissing my remarks about the
black flower tattoo clutching her neck.
Or perhaps opened a pro-shop weaving gut,
piloted a Cessna over Belgrade,
shucked oysters in your own piano bar –
folly
flight
fugue.
We would probably banter over spoons and
sponge, same old same old,
who cares? Life is no more
than jive and jest.
Even if you read
To Kill a Mocking Bird, again, 
in the chair across from mine by the fire, I
could pop in special lenses and gaze
at your corona with 
awe.

Twenty-seven years, six months, twenty-three days,
after the blue moon interceded the
astral spectrum,
You could pull your heals through the darkness, carving
da capos in the sand,
reflecting on how feelings 
felt like facts – 
breath
hum
synchronicity. Celestial 
bodies sedated amid 
dawn and dusk, silhouetting
negative space –
blue
black
argent, heraldic
spectacle, gazing
through ISO 12312’s
at the precise point when
the eclipse will
pass.