This has not lost the love
That faces each dawn
Of pre-existing metamorphisis,
It calms each mind
And inflates the salt
So that each lick tastes
As cunning as an advance should taste.
Each realm of unforseen
Crackles in the evening fire
As weapons of speech
Flicker off the far wall
Of the darkening cavernous region
From whence they have come,
Waiting for the moonscape
To return to the land