He worships an anthill, sprawling deep underground,
something about the scientific soundness of man,
the first wonder woman:
wanting and by itself.
She says she doesn't want to be more romantic, won't be the sea.
But there they stood;
ranged along the cliff sides, met to be worthy.
To measure yourself at all, as far and as much as the next person to you,
makes me afraid to see, and by the contrary,
I adore you.
I think that this is sabotage
(we are always responsible for silence).
Sometimes I think we are two crazed animals
fighting the roars of our over-proud parents -
you hear the high pitched chants of little children
blending with the air.
And I will always start for the view from it's origin, the fire.
Don't hurry back into the machine -
I have photographs of other lives than the sun.
And maybe all the fires that fence in the stars
bloom over the wise man - the man made of mud;
it must be a demon's luxury.
Slow down, iron men, alive in the background,
a great laugh rises in your Edward Abbey.
It's ancient and forever, as he runs the body count to the source and nods,
"I'm going to let you have fancy plans."
Steel boats on peaks from far out, his current favorite thing to watch;
this is not really holding out breaths, not really drowning
this trivial world of dreams.
I don't know how to learn his dauntless lamplight,
at pyramids with something so heavy,
a thin green candle that's supposed to make me smile.
Well, yes, we are willing to work very wildly,
like little children,
blending with the darkness 'till it fades.
So, wise man; crazy kitten smile,
your owlish obstinacy staring back.
Study the art of science!
Build a fire that makes the ice sing: a faithless kind of flume!
Learn how to sacrifice for a visible nature,
unaware that this is a game,
and that she still bears the brunt of all this exploration.
