a man can live on very little,
natures womb is broad;
a man can live on hate and love and tears and smiles,
in the space between particles;
a man might speak in melancholy,
say of the stars that they're a rash,
or elaborate that abstract
to a rash of sparks
on the bittersweet breath of creation,
burning quicker than the amber-trapped
eyes that we are;
dying before us, unseen
in funerals lasting after us,
the abominable angelic fleas
bursting ignorant voices from bloody pimples
in an unthinking landslide imagination
made of words, sounds,
light to cling to names;
a man can live on very little
a world can drift through space