By J.W. Burns
hunched against the orange sky,
a white horizon nibbling at his bowels.
Far below, his sheep hungry, thirsty, horny
to be night in a cleft of stars.
Glibly reluctant, he is high enough
to make up secrets, cycle energy
into a sea without memory, a voice
traveling faster than the speed of light.
Somewhere water inhales, exhales.
He searches sleep for a beak to tear open
the earth, for the doubt to laugh; awake,
he pops a finicky squat.