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.