Tainting Ceres I

Tainting Ceres Silent, swift carrion ships swirl down
out of the glare of the too-small sun

Beyond Mars they foresee crowds soon.
But not yet; Ceres is still dead
The Belt is just rocks, pocked and shadowy.
They shamble through space
bound to the distant star,
repeating the worn paths of their
graceless gravity wedding

To the younger pilots they look like unhappy drunks
trudging eliptically home and home and home.


Dead worlds, dead worlds, mouths the flight leader.

But as they turn and burn toward the largest reeling lump,
a reflection of tiny Sol caroms
off some lustrous outcrop,
and that old greed breathes
life into every man's eye.