by Gideon Burton
This sky, a bronze, contracting bowl, a paste
Of heat, a smear of fire that descends
Along the spines of hope and dregs of waste
Until the oxygen itself will end.
This sea, this warm and bloody stir of meat,
This soup of plankton, manta rays and kelp
That swallows mountains, caverns in the sweet
Conclusion promised by the webs of help.
And this the dry and brooding moon, aloft
Despite strong gravities that tug its mass
To linger in the night despite the cost
As gawking gazers watch its present pass.
All this, and only minutes now remain
To tell what's left, what's more than mildly stained
Photo: flickr - Hopefoote, Ambassador of the Wow