Tale for the happy human race
A tiny sense, how come, on a comet called.
Oh hell, how we tinkerers yell at the ball
a million human hands told about but never
realised, where the face on Mars speaks sweet.
And winking, and false as a boy sitting down
smirking real hard where his goatee droops.
How we holler in twangs that world never counted.
What a code for knowing: telling the brain,
one or the multitude, inside fat infinitude,
how a race of scurrying philosophers of the belly
will write tomes on the purpose of a little planet,
a palette of a green eye, a seductive eye,
will tell to things swirling and maybe knowing
so far off we knew God more, like the winking
father that thrust coins your way and stoked
the whole house angry, would ever know of
walking home anything but drunk and raining
stones on a boy’s head he strode from happy.