The poet seen as asteroid

by Grahaeme Barrasford Young

Birth-cold, that place of memory, 
emptiness unravelling pasts for fun,
contemptuous of relationships, discarding them,
making a fetish from each failed one,
carving a hollow so wide and high
warmth that might let connections grow
is lost in its space and ebbs to fear.

Cold rock, this place of memory, 
elliptically curving your found sun,
so observers on its heights might predict
when, moving out of shadow,
its dense reheating core can melt, 
let pain sink faster than its harm
and in molten rock transmute,
from magma chambers rise as love.