The Planet On The Table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.

They were of a remembered

Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the

Were waste and

And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were

And his poems, although makings of his self,

Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.

What mattered was that they should

Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,

In the poverty of their words,

Of the planet of which they were part.