Here, at last, are the compounds particular to starting a vast living engine
Infinitely, almost, farther away than any human birth
I can feel them, squirming, in close icy pools only on Titan

We can reproduce them, sort of, in glass vessels in our methane
But they do not rain down on us, if they ever did.
Even the coldest people do not know.

Hazy, muddy, sepia ink
And a great affinity to commune, like the Ancient Greeks
They make up all the surfaces of things, and all the atmospheres

How can we listen?
They do not listen yet
They accumulate and promise us
That they may live.