I am a kind of monk - I like to think -
About the universe and other things:
How shit's perfume makes roses' lovely stink,
And why the monkey wasn't born with wings,
Though I've a brain outstrips the birds in flight.
I set my arm-chair on this mountain peak,
To hunt light-years beyond the edge of night,
To capture new-born planets in my beak,
And bring them home to feed my fledgling mind:
With space for breakfast and stardust for tea.
I seek. I soar. I leave myself behind
To whistle at the world in absent glee,
Comfortable in my philosopher's chair,
Here on my mountain and everywhere.