The surface is a lonely place.
There’s no air,
no water, nothing erodes.
The rocks are sharp.
The interior’s hot. Wet.
Air’s too thick.
Water drips, pools.
Swamps abound.
Shades and silhouettes,
weightless, 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,
then 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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