The worlds have passed,
or were too few then born?
The trees are covered
with white lace,
the second law will
raise its ugly face
And time is torn...
It's hardest to believe
that one exists
in a universe of forms
too large for lists
Green men
blush meekly,
wilt before their
mothers
in such heat
So, perhaps I spoke too soon?
What can a human sing
or spoon,
but slaps of water-chilling
dawn at noon?
