The smiling man knocked sideways whispers from the sky:
"I fall upon horizons, clouds, I flutter in the sky."

Do moons, do stars, do images glitter through the clouds
Or do people choose the magnitude that glistens in the sky?

The hunting owl looks down, it can never raise its eyes:
Prey become reflections of danglings in the sky.

A fox suspended, vixen strangled, a cub that cannot know
That its fate relies upon a smile that pushes in the sky.

Now: Shadow takes the stolen light and invades the weaker form
Which infects the sickly landscape inherent in the sky.

Worms creep silent every night, are chopped in two by light.
And light from corners of a mouth beholds them from the sky.

A mole can never gaze upon the moonlight raining on
The field, a tree, a mountaintop, a silhouette in the sky.

A human face can wash the moon, can spit and polish craters
Can cleanse and soap and scrub and sweep the window in the sky.

I suppose that I ignored the man who dangled, smiling sideways;
I dared not draw attention to that jester in the sky.