Ink and Sand

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.