We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.
The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.
The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone
and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love
but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.