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Five a.m., he sits outside watching stars
That fade, melting into a field of gray
As the cobalt dawn chases night away.
But then, while staring at a wayward quasar,
A thin red streak gives the sky a brief scar,
And he wonders at once what creatures sway
The ancient night sky, driven forth by day,
Reclaiming soon the dark from worlds afar.
He lights a cigarette, returns inside
Gets pen and paper, and begins to write
Of suns and moons and liquid methane seas;
Inside he gives voice to a coming tide
Of beings that lurk in the airless night
And the creatures that swallow galaxies.
© 1996 by J. M. Pressley
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