Somewhere down below
the planet is burning like a furnace,
all tangled in ecstasy on the giddy
whirling dance through space,
and here we sit sipping tea,
or water from a bottle,
like babies who haven't yet learned
to walk or even crawl.
We wave our arms and legs around
to say we tried, believing
our motion comes from outside of us.
As if this thing on which we stand
were not in hectic motion,
and as if we had not just yesterday
ourselves risen freshly from that clay,
bodies a deceit of planetary crust
which we’ve allowed to cool
and hide away the burning
phoenix I keep hoping
will rise from those cold ashes.