After the Mushroom Clouds Have Gone

being in this tin womb, dark and safe, that's the thing; inside the dark corners and air-lock doors, it's a floating life toothpaste and pureed stew float by; still, here's not to dwell on the minutiae and other small things and the silent solar-wind powers on, while below, the earth, the sea, the clouds, the blue and green, the tempered purple hues, tinge brown and if from the land you peer up here, from where the earth is dying, you'll see me sigh, through flocks of hope, and notice that I'm crying