Fewer now, farther away

or so close they seem like walls

higher with more surface seen

everything on it smaller.

 

Seeming infinite

but finite. Each place

reveals in all directions

unique horizons in intimate arcs

of light from zenith

to the edges of the world

every parallax

makes its own; all

horizons finite, all

zeniths infinite, all

views personal.

 

As vision rises horizons lengthen

distance shrinks

features beyond

the limits of sight; risen

even into outer space we see

only bodies to their edges not

their other sides.

Both sides of the same star

cannot be seen

though can be known.

 

Horizons are illusions

of opacity and place

verticality and gravity.

Transparencies have no horizons.

Photons scribe their curved-straight lines until

deflected or absorbed by bodies

in their paths. If bright

their journey of a billion years

may end in naked eyes;

within an arc of sea

three miles.

 

Where is the horizon in deep forest

the bottom of a well, a cave

in sleep, in a crater on the moon?

The illusion of perspective lost

at distance, those close at hand

loom larger than the stars

yet seem just as near and far.

 

Now with little in the offing

no objects to obstruct the view

I do not know how far away

the terminator edge of dawn, how deep

the depression into which I fall, how high

the mountain I must climb without

the planetary ground

to block the stars that suture

empty space.

Soon nothing will be far

the only horizon

a rectangular hole

the zenith close.