Alchemisland

Lifelike shapes rose on mauve tails

Light and freightless as a barren babyless

Or a carriage to which Dick Turpin offered bag emptying terms

Smooth surfaces, no nails

Without rivet, marks of making, maker’s marks

These arks, with ne’ry a buffering moment

Start out across promiscuous stars

Through mysterious bores open like a starving’s mouth

Food-promised starlings set out.

In hopes of carving out new straits, new ways

To traverse a soundless maze some ancient race

Or their wiser maker, hath made

Stars that are eggs

Some wire-pregnant soarer laid.

Like nodes lanterning their own arrival

I waited a while and watched them glide guileful

As they eighted upon my rite-baited nightsky 

Pale stones skimmed masterly most across sable oceans

Some stars barded in bard-heart flame

Others pale and artful like fate-making bone

Puzzling glyphs they left which in order to read a lift was needed.

Weak as a reed, weak

Weed-reeking weeks spent in dreamseeking cryosleep.