Primeval

지난달

Across the night
Sprinkled stars
Apple blossoms strewn,

Swirl in eddies
Overhead
A slow spinning typhoon.

To note orientations
And notations
I need quaternions and interpolations;

The music of the spheres
Deaf to human ears,

Or at least, this generation.

Yet a stick in the ground
Tracks the sun round
For equinox and solstice,

We have machines
To complicate the scheme
Of seed time and harvest;

But I prefer to use
Earth as my cue

A simple twig
Plots
Ley Lines of tombs;

And I, with ancients,
To the radar disc
Attuned,

Struggle
To harpoon
The white flesh of the Moon.

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