Lemming stars would never run,
only spring fully formed from the head of God
into the silent eternal race from nothing to nothing.

They will giggle, obviously,
and unobviously, they will fall
like particularly obtuse rain from an unexpected thunderstorm

Lemming stars would never leap,
only summer on the cape sipping seabreezes
saying to lemming moons, “pull up your damned suit!”

They will cry, obviously,
and unobviously, they will winter
like particularly old women in pinkly flowered muumuus near Naples, Florida.

Lemming stars would never run,
only smear half-thoughts into the mind of God
like wild hymns on the edge of some holier-than-thou Galaxy far far away.

They will laugh, obviously,
and unobviously, they will whisper
“Yes, there is hope … there is always hope.”