I must, have painted the sky Or if not me, someone else In daubs of black, and moving lines With that sidelong perspective That goes from a starred point, to almost forever Travelled a thousand miles (Because almost nothing poetic can be heard in the brute and wearying sound of hard kilometres – except that too savage tintinnabulation) Only to find The ground is more difficult here Than all previous history’s Inflorescences, gradually pressed To the sandstone of Inexplicable striations Life is a coincidence Like the face of god you thought you saw In a snail shell’s jagged lines Gone with a second glance And, perhaps, not really there at all
