Alas

wondered
what the sunsets and sunrises were, what they were like
on a day when coming felt natural.

Tim always laughed it off,
but thought hurt feelings later,
there was no way to moo
for the milk.
No way to trot
his trot.

Lungs gasp, hands grasp,
but the ponies of Reggie from Cleveland,
surpass.

Nietzsche was a treeloper,
dangler of fire.

And the ash of Tim
is more exciting
than the palm of his hand.