It’s been raining and am trading,
whilst my half seems graining;
the half of me leaves this land,
to a life way above my strength.
I am draining into a subliminal pool;
but a pool dug out not of earth,
saturated silence of my own;
and who is here to know?
Slacken to suddendom arrest of barest minimum—
to the right I see no moons,
to the left,
a downward motion of 15 moons—
all encircling my whims.
Like a plaintiff;
the law is not your bosom—
but the bosom pupil accentuation—
by the judge on the supremacy.
Pluto no longer my sin,
whimpering traverse acceptance of anatomy;
yet a click assent address,
where asteroids bleat like angels—
and hosts of comets sing,
all binoculars astronomical theoritical experience.
The Village Thinker © 2014