Call it insurmountable, this task
of reviving tomorrow. How could
we: now the sun rises in the west,
now it rains bile, now the moon forgot
its silver. She spins webs spiders fear
and they glisten and chant and lure
us into midnight exodus. And the blue
feels warm and cold and the sky
sounds like a poem. There is a vastness
to it all, but someone once told me
space is relative. Atom to atom
planet to planet runs the stretch paved with
copper moans. And it is sublime
when she twists torsos into tree trunks and pulls us
north and south, and pummels us with bouquets of daffodils
that splinter bones into asbestos. Inhale
how divine it is to be devoured
by a thing of your own making.