We are spinning
on a magma-veined rock
that hangs in space,
yes, that, in and of itself,
phenomena, but for another take–
a perfect circle of a world,
a teeming galactic bulb
hosting
the seismic grift
and throb of human caste,
pumping tidals of hot blood
to varicose vanities,
anxious floodlights
hunting shadowed love,
storm fronts, foretold, as below,
so above,
here, now, us,
a Shakespearean range
of climates and follies
that shape the phenomena
of what dreams may come
into a vessel of theater
equal parts
absurdist farce
and love song
forever burning
to know itself.
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