Lying on my behind feeling the grass out back,
my town’s meniscus pulled between two peaks,
to draw a line from Ainslie to Black weighing mass against the petri Earth’s breach,
as you prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet the birds laugh the distance between mountainous hands,
and six hundred thousand mouse-feet.
A turn of wind pipes solace-less,
against rosed cheeks, no mention
of calmed stakes lining meek surface tension,
and though men’s hair may ruffle stray the Highland’s hands cradle without sway,
Any grand scientist who stares downward this dish
should cast its residue away.
For at their slopes termite waves splash
and hammer swirls against green loam.
To gnarl one’s fangs at nature’s gash, to growl against cold stone!
Fools hollow out Diana’s dream and carve the notches of Atlas’s spine,
pour pestilent cream down Mother’s throat
and steal away with the pine.
If science be the sailing boat and man merely a gurgling moat,