Apocalupsis

Man, thy walk, is but a little flight and
Change of scene
You find yourself in the same water again and again.

From surf to surf
Escaping the dusty confines of earth.
None flies so free as the wheeling gull.

Blue sky, this thin envelope,
Gives distant dreams
For your dried sight.
The drink of its crystal vial
For all of its width and heighth---
Is a weak mixture gravity cannot slip.

Were you to escape this terrestrial pull
Where would you alight?
Nothing on the moon is meat for your imagination.
Sleep, a brief forgetting
Of dusk and dawn
Yet the same day rolls on
While you pretend that all is new.

Your purse is terrestrial,
Hammered in delicate coin,
None of your riches could buy back one word.
Your eyes search the flattened horizon,
All on earth is earthy
None can quit its spinning.
Therefore content yourself in pastimes befitting
little children
And still derive great satisfaction in this play.

Admire the black cow in the searing sun
When the Winterland is white
Save for the tawny, dry grasses
Which he must chew upon.