MOTION

A worm lifts up a somber eye

And sees how sweet it is to fly;

What gossips, raids, impressions, climates, fun!

He’s heard of flies that tango in the sun.

The fly (you guess the tale) admires the worm,

Enjoying on his decent inch the firm

Tradition of a twig. His own head aches

With every sprint he undertakes.

Eagles beg of moles a fling at sod.

God himself is bored with being God.

Why else did Zeus go slumming as a swan?

Why did the Holy Ghost go fooling as a man?

Cobalt atoms shiver in the very stone,

And dissolution is the amusement of bone.