If I could paint the sky with stars and
use words like infinitesimal yet
I still would not know how
it took what it took, for those who travelled (by shuttle), to the moon
But maybe only why.
A timed pocket of decay
We twist, along, twirling, turns, actualising
Ultimata issues diagrams
beautiful obsession unto us
prick a higher, high, higher being
Her porcelain rabbit perched. By
Her well to quench and drown
sickly soured overripe Garcinia fruit in mid-autumnal mornings
Pouring it all down, away to nowhere, it all
becomes one way or another
composing underneath this equatorial reality
While we make,
happening
plans happen. Wax-waning in Her perfect time, and only hers.