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
and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.