By Matt Praxmarer
At once the mountains play in streams, sand a
Sudden side effect of Aphrodite foam, black slick underneath
Hasty crafted of the single stumbling old lizard…
Leaves a shade falling somewhere around green and void,
The ape perhaps a more playful breed of us…
Those glories seem a little vain,
Each gray mattered Adam all deceptively to blame,
For endings less spectacular than lame.
Dark ages,
Only Blinks.