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.
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