Starry Night Over The Rhine
Zeke Roth-Reynolds
Lights shine on water’s edge;
they sit atop their own distorted reflections, like
beacons resting on undulating towers of golden coins, or
cars’ headlights in the distance going over a bridge’s illuminated pillars, resembling
lit stars on the peaks of golden Christmas trees.
Stars wink in the night sky,
shining hazy and green through the inky blue, seeming
almost scabrous, or like volcanoes seen from above, which form
the big dipper floating in a puddle of lit sky, a milky puddle it once held; the stars are
maybe just fireflies in the fog.
On the water skeletal boats float;
they’re narrow and long, outlined against the water, like
dried locust pods, empty black husks stuck with needle-thin masts, which
pierce upwards and point towards the fireflies, reflections of the spired skyscrapers, that
cluster and crowd thirstily on water’s edge.
To this are two turned backs;
two sets of eyes not seeing the dancing golden towers, nor
the winding string of pearls coursing through the infinite black, nor
the burning light from across the water, banding the Rhine like a barcode; to all this
are two backs turned.
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