It’s a violent night
sitting here on the rump of the ancient mastodon.
The shards of broken earth strike the moon
in great numbers as their arcs are intersected.
The cockroach king in his vaulted subterranean throne room
laughs with his concubines and his billion children
while he has allowed me to be banished to this low hill.
As I dream my last, my solace is this:
When I die, my dirt will be closer to the sun than his.