Bubbleships
And houses
floating at three thousand feet
Like red and yellow birds of
paradise on slender stalks.
Odd to share
such imaginings
Decades after, and half the wide
old earth
Blue and
emerald at her girth.
Your
bubbleship was turreted however,
With fast guns shooting blue
fire
Darting like
a dragonfly and shaped like one.
But that
house!
And the Haleakala sunrise
Burning
orange rays bent into the liquid canopy
Cloaking this ancient globe.
And a
pool. That’s a touch beyond me.
But the red hair. And English.
Full marks,
Director.
Who spoke to you, anyway,
And
assembled the forgotten, dusty pieces
Of a childhood spent in humid
isolation,
Quiet and
oppressive heat,
Full of afternoon silence,
Broken only
by the steady thrum
Of crickets and cicadas,
And dreams
of being cold.
Why then, Maker, have you made mad men so
Different, and at such
distances, but with
Such common
desire? You are the Singularity in
Which soul being has origin and
end.
And I wonder
at it,
Under pale blue cloud free
skies,
And dry,
crisp air full of red and yellow and orange
Lights.
