With half-closed eyes the sun
Watches the heavenly ink
Spill out of its pot
As if God, like a frustrated poet
Had pushed his inkpot off his writing-desk.
The golden light from Sol’s eyes
Bathes the horizon in a sandy glow
But it cannot continue further
For the Sun is drowsy,
And ’tis tarnished by the blue
From the irises of the sky-spirits.
The abaxial green, as if dissatisfied with its colour
Lets the blue take over
Which, corrupted by the inksplatter
Mirrors an elephant’s skin under water.
Then the blue-gray darkens
As if the elephant were surfacing
To take in a gulp of air.
Finally it all dissipates
Into the swirling, bubbling pot of tar
Inverted at the zenith of the sky
Defying his mother Terra’s pull
Growing, expanding slowly
Like a black hole
Swallowing all the light around
Burping stars occasionally.