Space Travel

Bleached white by lightning in the night, the lawn
is clamorous with mating toad-song; hope
inspires the Bufo lover in his trope,
while I, the interloper wait for dawn.
I hear masked lapwings ululate and mourn,
and fruit bats’ ghastly voices as they grope
for blossoms like an addict after dope,
then whoosh on black umbrellas, upwards-borne.
It’s not a punishment to lie and hear
the rest at work while Homo sapiens sleeps.
Small preachers bring their explanations near
and make the ancient mystery more clear.
Each entity converts me as it creeps.
The world is mine and mine and mine my dear.

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