Not only the miracle of waking,
the disturbed miracle of being awake
and the provided miracle of not waking,
but also the mother-fuckers who flower constantly
and won't watch the world change like an emotional glacier
the station of nature's no love
 eclipsed in a leaf-side
undervein splashing with honey of twilight
vermilion moon

Not only the miracle of sleeping, but also
the miracle of those who cannot close their eyes.

I am a child of the smashed earth.
Taught to love it with blindness, sight blazing,
I am the child with no identity but death, living.
Through the suffering and warriorhood of my whole existence
flanks are paler than the case of the paint can opener
anchored to the bottom with golden-red light
a zone of shrubs and dwarf trees and broad-leaved water
power-driven machines smelted in the ashes
two pieces of stone men struck together
in a little pile of dry grass to the darkness
of our planet home solar system