Morning light not reflected
Absorbed from golden sun
Warms my neck and
shines upon the Devil’s Orchard
Born from ashes and molten rock
Limber pine are sprouting from under
and the lichen are turning color
The Devils are in conquest
and call upon the words of philosophers
to instill pity, “Why cannot I have this?”
The Devil asks as he breaks moon rocks into gravel
As we turn gravel into pavement
The rumble is still apparent
Moon rocks sticky like wet sand
Soft like rubble
If we pretend we are on the moon
then we can blame the aliens for its destruction
Black blossoming
Hungry and hurting
Waves held in standstill
As about to topple
As about to be toppled
