On one miscarriage of the wind
blew the chaff of the creation seed
carried by a firefly and emptied
to spawn a race of slow beasts in the mud.
Sun beat down on them and
and its falling firedrops
beaded on their eyelashes,
its scorching waves of age-old breath tickled
their mangy chests,
its rising and its setting
twixt four beech-gold horizons,
kindled in their furnace-breasts
a bellowing joy that fit
their ancient, shivering dreams.
Sun-loving, they knew much more than we.
Now the sun dies on the rocky horizon
not lingering but fading, fading,
till it no longer washes this melt-stained planet face
I want to shatter the leagues
of distance that stretch between here and the stars,
and stroke the warm orbs that bless our birth
and kiss the twinkling benevolent eyes
that survey our souls in death.