My fires are so thirsty,
the hunger drinks itself.
Transcendent wheel turning,
at once groaning and soundless.
I speak the language of rounded stones,
spoken at the navel of the world.
At times I cannot even reach you.
At times I scoop you up
to ride across the world in the cups of my hands,
my skin peeling back
as if it were the bark of a eucalyptus tree.
To really explain, I’ve got to go back
to where the rain stopped suddenly
and everything went quiet
and the sky turned bright orange.
I’ve got to go back and I can’t take you with me,
but I will return and tell you what I find there.
All my life,
I simply do what I was made to do.
That is why I am a contented man.