I mix my memories for added pleasure;
The mind is an ever-spinning galaxy
whose centroid should not be found.
Quantum theology and his stellar beasts
pick up the shells of our bodies when we decay
and run along, across the night sky you
will never see such a breath swept coolly away.
The grain of the wood of the wall of the old
farmhouse off the side of the summer road
far from the August haze of the empty town
and long after the neons died down.
We are children of the loneliest stars,
but would we find anything if
We could gaze across the rust red horizon and past
the rio of the dead-dust Mars?
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