The bottom of the sky is garish
For stars to dip their prosthetic toes
And the tips of the ears long like the beards of hermits that don’t pray
It’s the broken light of the lampposts and distorted songs
Of the inane and inanimate taking imaginary showers
And cracked shoes the prototypes for teapots
And boats to cross the rivers misplaced by a substitute
For the old soul the natives call granddaughter

the bigger the moon, the smaller the earth

According to theosophists and UFO buffs,
erratic movements of some cyclists and lawn mowers clearly show that
they are just heavily transformed drops of mercury
from ancient thermometers, now set free.
As you surely know, these cheap mystics like to jam
that kind of gaudy bullshit into your head, and I do too.
But children still daydream about twisted metal rods on construction sites
which threaten heavens with unseemly renovations
and remind raccoons and coyotes of the pierced guts.
It’s the songs of naiads and alligators in the sewers
that hopelessly distort messages from outer space.
However, you can enjoy Saturnian wine much more
when you are here, far away from Saturn.