Material’s sabbath; the world remade;
born of regolith chink and sorptive suck;
of clay composed, and the living-dead muck;
air, water, rock, life in an endless braid
tied so loose and tight that we will/won’t fade
into slumbrous darkness, then forced to wake:
“I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take”*;
a shameless thief armed with a fearsome blade;
a strict accountant: all debts must be paid;
a gesture caught in unrepeating cycle,
so well-performed that she’s named it “Michael”—
but scratch the surface and such things pervade
to force, at times, the hardiest to weep
as torrid terrors tear them from our sleep.

*Thom Gunn, “Moly”