(after Carl Sagan)
When the lion was cut open, there was a hive of bees,
hunter-gatherer semaphores on a gold plate, the great
TV in the sky, thought balloons, a single origin.
But our wandering lights are not the cynosure, we are
the product of dead ends where many languages
spoke. Even the most fervent is a temporary ziggurat,
a showerhead talking from Venus, haemoglobins
of deep spiritual intent. Like watching yr hair fall out.
Because we are interpenetrating beings, our makers
regale us with domesticated fruit. Plutonium economies
return to textbooks: but words of any size or breed
are marked easily, chased beyond the solar diocese
of barbaric heliums. The next crisis proves its point.
But about the child they found, playing among the bees?