by Ken Poyner
Freckle arguably with me
Down to the cyano-rock culture,
Waving your delirious fracture dangerously
Behind us like a furthering eye.
Let’s gallop on cross-wind spores,
A cloud of welcoming bursts,
As they spindle our common way.
I will recite for you
The history of the next thousand
Seconds, no wishery allowed.
By the time we will get where we are going,
The land will be prepared, you will
Have organized all of your gracious nodules,
And I will be fumbling from my master control.
Beware: I have methods
That meagre more than mere moments.
I long for what gravity does to us:
May it tweed its tendrils to tethering
Joy in infinitesimal industrial latchings.
You will be dark-shell enveloped.
And then, only then, will I bring back
The willowing carnivore rain.
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