Nocturne for a Scorched Earth
"The sun was an angry little pinhead."
If the body is a temple, mine has been
The sky's cruel torch forgot me
on its way across the sky.
Left out to dry,
with water, water everywhere
and not a drop to drink.
The buttery, silken touch
had been conquered by a rampant,
and in this crucible, the wind
still brought death.
Everything not already a chalk-dust whimper
came to the conclusion of a gnarled creak---
trees melted in the rays or twisted as phantasms,
the animals had to hide
all of their tender parts
in calcium suits or jade-coloured pajamas.
All that was nourishing,
all that was blue-green and moist
was dying or dead.
I supposed it was my fault, that way.
I've been a big part in damning myself
to radiation leaks
and mushroom skies.
I wanted to apologize, I guess,
to someone, to anyone for what I did.
But who could you turn to
for something like that?
The moon rose from the sea
through a purple and softened overhang;
she, herself, a pale node,
a living receiver,
some fierce and glorious empath,
a benevolent in lilac.
She beamed me up to heavens,
taking everything green,
everything that would burn
"The sun was an angry little pinhead,"
and I was like the moon now,
"...nothing but minerals."
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