R/ckets and S/ntries

right in split, in delve, in
the damn
language
you and I grew, and we
weren't even trying.
in lengthy
pond or prattle, lacking
smear or
better
the drastic day, look up
child and find,
or move deigning
drink upon
momentous ocular
hopeful. it's a
rage called
poetry, brought to the
lights by
alien
concern on this
frosty
planet. what does it
matter, bug? in
vale, then,
beneath
dirt or sky, a field
day fortitude of
rising here
while alien
concerns purpose
walk. right here in
this planetary
left to us, the closed
as much as the open.