Dancing Badly

He rode in on the plumy fumes of hydrocarbons –

stumble-dancing in and out of stinking gas –

the last attenuated progeny of supernova blast –

the stamp and record of the most the Cosmos

had yet ever sired: a thing with consciousness,

intention – incarnation of new ruthlessness –

a hungry self-direction which desired. He lusted

after everything: he’d take whatever he could press

to his exorbitance as wife: all the squirms of chaos,

every edgily resistant strife. His name was Life.

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