From the warm and noisy dark I watch,
from within a gentle fuss of feet and squeaking,
the resolute stars. And I watch you.
You are beautiful, like newborns. Your eyes move slowly,
you walk without fear past terrible animals
wearing garish coloring, with words.
Even when the animals kill you, shitting you
out as smoke, you post black words on white squares
to mark your deaths, and carry on walking
jogging, whistling, lugging around the cubes of music.
Oh, your pointless music! It builds structures
in our minds, tall and interlocking,
and reminds me of your black glass buildings, tall and interlocking
which we hide from, or under, and do not understand.
Do you understand? I doubt it. Yet you have the force of mind
to muscle the earth into that form, and we do not.
I have a confession: I wish I were strung like a wire
inside one of your fancy brains: rigid, nose to tail
so I could feel the quickness with which you think,
the deftness with which you pile your beliefs atop one another
until you have made platforms out of air.
Perhaps they will hold, and lift us & the mounds of termites all
to the ceiling-glow of the stars. I don't think on it much.
Once when I was a youth, I smelled something acid and new.
I bit down, and tasted sharp fat orange.