The diffident nova is affronted.
In a lens, because in spite I focus,
and against my living crutch, I, as a planet,
perch the matter of spoiled bodies a distance
from my own, who’s lethal activity is viewed
through the scope, as is mine.
For grubs I give gods, and the birth of time.
I am untethered from imminence or evanescence,
each but mirrors, delightful, ember-spitting,
but I would concede a revelation for grubs;
they are illustrations of the soul when inhuman.
Any man who has sweat suspects his blood
is richly above, and in the hours par night and sleep,
my own blood is a dram in the vast closet;
there are scopes for Andromeda,
and scopes for my cells.
I’d wager that any prone difference,
by the moment, takes after the man.