Where I am from,
it is the sullen joy of man

to converse with the moon and the stars, as they break towards the


horizon
But moons, stars, horizons are rocks, ash, and

burned things

On what hearts will they carry your burden?
In a gala of constellations

They find you huddling between rocks
Ushering in rocks, ash, and burned things

You give them names and with a tap of eyes

A spark in the hands, they transmogrify in colors,


Principles, and calculations

Errors, faults, and sins
With a pitch of the foot, you cast them outside into the void

Where temperatures fall below your eye level

And the dark floor twists away into dark corners

Where man might linger
Where I am from
In the dark, it the sullen joy of man

to burden


and bless nothing with something