Alien's Ghastly

One imagined
Leaning over
Lava canyon
And jumping in

With the farewell,
"I'm sorry, but
I'm going home."
Without an ash

Mote remaining
In the boiling
Planetary
Molten innards

Who could say one
Had not escaped,
Indeed, gone home?
Would the shrilling

Of a troubled
Soul, so simple
In the moonlight,
Prove anything

Except what is
Coming to kill
Us, from cedar
Swamps, gaunt wolves' howl,

Knows our language
Is exceeding
Scant and barren?
The felon owl

Moans that, unless
One is Montaigne,
Essays won't make
Reputations.

Forensics sighs
Over the ghost
Of a body
Gone home as words.

The mystery
Of the vanished
Intelligence,
Always, remains.