John Biscello

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.