A Command Poem by James Sutherland-Smith

Do not trust the stars.
They arrive when words sleep
and induce the ghost of pure noise.
The Milky Way reels above you.
Its furthest energy began
to reach towards you before
our first gutturals were uttered
while its nearest source of light could,
At this moment, no longer exist.
Be disturbed
by the church's mineral chime,
the unscuffed grid for hopscotch
chalked on the pavement and the ash leaf
its tissue worn away to a pattern
of veins. It is held beneath
a translucent glaze of ice
like a specimen on a slide.
It is certain enough.
It is not permanent.