Apocryphal Poem by nicky kelly

Coming out the sands I regained my recess.
The moon in the backstage posed for the final touch
God had just made the desert and saw that
good.
But chose for sobriety. Not hurray at all, today.
Yet the primeval waters looked like common places
and there weren't drops under the microscope
(the small scientist, besides, wouldn’t have found any ferment inside) .
his huge hand was raising
the darkness of a desire far down.
That odd idea made him happy.
Such a clay wasting to please his own likeness and image.
and a wavering on the art’s sake.
All in all I felt that sorrow feels the difference
fondling itself.
Cannot say it was flood or ebb
that made the words.