I like to read about the ancients,
Sitting in their little stone houses,
Figuring it all out:

The sun? A chariot pulled by horses.
Disease? Demons pricking you
With tiny pitchforks.
This planet? A bright coin
In the palm of a giant,
His long hair streaming constellations.

Much research remains to be done.
How do the sun’s horses live in the sky?
What are the tiny pitchforks made of?
What will happen if the giant drops the earth?

The horses falter in the flames.
The tips of the tines sink deeper.
The ocean coves tremble like jelly
In the giant’s tiring hand.

(First published in Alternate Route #10, Summer 2023. Thanks to editor Michael Starr.)