He is not a far mountain
Hidden by some congealing
Inkiness -- a fog, no, he is not.
He is not a setting star
That rests in the atmosphere, boiling
He boils -- but set, he does not.
He is not a child's glowstick cracked
Glow, by some measure, against
The pale night -- but pale, he does not.
And by that glowstick, he does not fade
Nor does he sit at the bottom of pools
And shimmer -- but stick, yes, he sticks.
Like a cat's tongue on the flesh of Earth
The drift, papery ash in the child's hair
And glows -- yes! of embers he stole.
A canary cries, but he does not sing
He howls, screaming in forgotten canyons
Oh, Thomas! -- but forgotten, no, he is not.