The stars hung limpid-bright,
hot and molten ember-shards
and a planet hung fat up there.
I'm sure a shooter crossed the pitch.
I am but a cog beneath it;
a cog in a wider cognition:
maybe ultimately unknowable,
maybe better off for our not knowing.
But I am tethered to the stars
as we are tethered to each other,
an unsought and unwished for
token of our humanity.
But some are less ties and more chains:
we chain ourselves to our goods,
to our possessions, and our possessions
enchain their makers.
The stars were not born in poverty,
but in grandeur and simplicity.
And out of endless forms, that wheel,
a grander cognition, what will yet come?
What will we yet make?
What will we yet design?
When will the yield finish its yielding?
And when will the present be time?
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