The surface is a lonely place.
There's no air,
no water, nothing erodes.
The rock's are sharp.
The interior's hot. Wet.
Air's too thick.
Water drips, pools.
Swamps abound.
Shades and silhouettes,
without essence, multiply.
The lonely places are not private places.
Nothing's fully realized in the hot interior.
But when the striving stops--
the clamor, the cleaving,
the thunderous dividing--stops,
the lake breeze blows,
babies cry delight,
communities spring up to dance,
and great ideas come from
all their hiding places.
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