Mr.


The earth is stretched around its corners—tight,

a spheric ship that travels through the seas

of stars and roiling nova bursts that freeze

or burn the thinning air around them, bright.

And yet it journeys on, ship-shape and right

with all precarious cargo: like the trees,

and every crawl crustacean in the seas

that hurtle fathoms round and through the night.

And ever thus this spinning dance of life:

that rich and wild chlorophyll of strife

still uses well that great beginning breath.

And even now while balanced on a knife,

this world, endowed with din and damage rife

can shout for joy for life still lives—through death.

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