by Gideon Burton
This wobbling mass, the wandering way of it,
the spinning, whirling on this windy wet
and island place, this globe, this fleck of spit,
perfecting what the vacuum can't perfect,
revolving through the comets' arcing lanes.
The Local Group, the spread of sputtering lights
too distant, quiet to collect remains
of errant gases, rocks. These are the rites
effected, bead thumbed after bead, the chant
of rhythms muter than the oldest span
of cooling lava underneath the land
oblivioned beyond our woman-man.
The ration carved, remainders multiply;
a future past our waking, though we try.
Photo: flickr - Brian Finifter