The planets are irrelevant. We're talking about life,
a euphemism for the road to death.
You know it when it chokes you or when someone plants a
knife
between your epiglottis and your breath.
It doesn't hide in crystals or in interstellar space.
It isn't made of Plasticine or lead.
I met a guy who reckoned we were warts on heaven's face
until he took up tapestry instead.
They put him in a Lancia (the tumbrils were employed
in lending colour to a flagging verse)
and drove him to Croatia (I temporarily toyed
with Macedonia, but the metre's worse).
We'll leave him there. We're talking about life. Before
you go
concluding I've got nothing more to say,
I'll wax anthropomorphic and endeavour to bestow
its qualities on something everyday -
The moon will do. I asked it, "What's it like to
live alone
reflecting since the days of Genesis?"
It didn't say, "Don't ask me, I'm a lifeless lump of
stone".
It would've, but it couldn't, 'cause it is.
