Knowing the earth rolls over
without falling
helped once to trust the Sun
to stand again in its patient certainty,
and we were warmed in worship
of our familial orbit,

but bound as we are also
to the distinctive abandon
of the stuttered and clattering night,
our late protector cannot atone
in every dawning thaw.

In our fall,
the drowned green dries faded,
curling over in crackled horror;
we watch the earth bend,
and the sun slouch.
It is old now, and untrusted,
hiding in abject haze of covetous clouds
waiting to jealously bury us
with their frozen debts.

In the fires of winter
we learned of our adoption.

We are
but daily bathed in the blast
of a titan's mutable furnace,
descended of an aberration
of fateful pedigree,
boiled from old soup
that sprouted limbs
to clamor for breath,
to pull its meat from the mud
to know itself.

Churning the air for our little whiles,
we throw our children forward,
burning our rituals in the night,
professing to roll the earth
in our intrepid blindness,
spurning in the tepid dawn
the remorseful gifts
brought by a deadbeat star.

10/23/2018

Posted on 10/23/2018
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen