by Alice Burdick
Sun rides us, inspired by the bristles
that stretch into the mainstream.
The moon rides the deep-down creatures
too. This is every day as a planet.
Whatever sits and stares at us
mixes our colours into a bright portent.
That’s a word you don’t see every day,
but you could. Sun rides us,
long tail into the atmosphere.
I told you it was a bright beginning
but that’s not the whole story.
When you live at the bottom of a bright
day, the mud is a warm and fertile
bed. You are happy there,
and happy here, where all the smallest
breathers dive. They blink right
into your golden maw. Horses
of the ancients paw the clouds
for water’s fall. When you are small
the smallest ancients too loom large.
Will we catch them? We try. We dive,
but we’ll never finish - instruments stuck
deep in the lowest muck.