Echoes From Thompson, Varley, Jackson, Harris, Murphy

I could rest here for a while,
under hollow fullness
(for earth and sky are full
of such contradictions),
where echo of sunlight
dimmed, even against a moon
(what is the sky, but a hollow
for the sun, and the earth,
but its swallowing gaze),
leaping between your nose –
I could be here only
a little while,
I could stand such pregnant emptiness
for a brief term
and then I must turn
to search for the sun
that must be staring
or rising or mourning,
at my anxious, roaming eyes.