Chaos erupts on the northernmost reaches
of this benighted planet, its core shakes, quivers
with pulses of magma. Pumice flies
from the surface plumes
up, up, up, beyond the seven circling moons beyond
the crown nebula beyond
the wind-whipped reaches of Sol beyond
and here I sit
crackle-glazed like a rack of roast lamb
tucked into a crater when everyone else has left
but that's okay that's how I like it --
'the loneliness of the long-distance cosmonaut'.
The planet's crust is melting tonight.
Gazing down from 20000 miles up
I see patterns; skull's heads, wounded antelopes, flowers
dancing on one leg, peacocks.
Time to go. I've done all I can. If
you were here you'd shake your head
but you're not.
You weren't too pleased with my cooking.
"Call that a rack of lamb?" you said.
Burnt? You call that burnt? No, this is burnt.
See your planet now? See? Do you?