Some Skin

The planet at night from near orbit,
That now quite familiar net of lights,
That’s where all the news resides. It flies,

Flits, humming busily to itself,
The web that has birthed its own insects
With which to feed itself and, as well,

Through which to observe and be itself.
If tonight a patch of lights go out,
That will be a big part of the news

Because this peopled planet watches
And monitors its lights constantly
Far more precisely than any brain,

More precisely aware of itself.
If there’s a soul in the whole of it,
You can believe the news will know when

And where, and won’t maunder on about
Trying to weigh a pineal gland.
But this cortex of the world is thin,

And some nights it’s fun to imagine
Some horrible alien, giant
God, or bizarre collision event

Peeling the crust like an apple skin,
The suddenly dark net of the news
Now scraps whisked by solar winds through space,

Just a humble, naked planet left
To keep on spinning and reflecting,
No news to report, like all the rest.