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What would be worth
a taste of the moon in a honey straw
sucked between raw space
and some wired, wakeful city?
For there are street blocks stretching,
roads retiring to countryside diners
and peak hour discos
that redden some sad town.
And between, the gap-toothed chasm
that swallows it all behind.

A moon is many lives away
and so the dawn tastes charred,
too long stewed on the morning burner
with weeks of metal residue.
Melting into myths told long
and fragmented over grits and fried regret.
So exists the burnt tongue of customer cough
and weary ride to nowhere’s gate.

It is clear, we are too small
for this universe.
The unknown is greater and sweeter
than any radio can sing,
any light can torch time.

Here in planetperch
revolving in our ignorance,
time is twirled round our fingers
as if we controlled its midnight motion.

And still the space is vacant
with the breath of black holes undefined,
and somewhere burns a brother sun
or moon of myriad stars.
A brilliant quasar, some titan of light
in the perfect ebony dream.

It is clear, we are too simple
for this universe.
The darkness is greater
than any fire can feed,
any quake can claim its ruin.

But how to travel blindly
into time’s unbroken halo,
and dust the face of orbits
with the sparks of human fire,
requires only one old soul
emboldened so to question,
“Green-faced sentinel in the low sky,
What message for the fields today?”

\m/ SBG
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