The stone of coal on my work table compacts eons. It’s bog, fern, a form of rhyme, life’s common carbon. I too am carboniferous, a life-form making poem. I’m molecules morphing through time, DNA-shaped, dream-blown. Life’s strict poetics, ATCG, CGTA, ignites the mind’s eye. All carbon- capturing beetles, microbes, old coal bogs carry life, its long line. They carry time.