It's not dead! Hurrah. Here's a poem:
So, Then, Tycho Brahe
On the hillside that overlooks city and sea,
I sit within hand’s reach of you, nestling in
The soft grass, sheltered by branches,
Black blanket sky lit by freckles of light,
On the hillside just angled to lie and look up.
I haven’t anything to say, not really,
And the blathering stream and the bass-chorus
Owls seem more eloquent anyhoo, night-
Watchmen with three-sixty vision; I tell you that
I haven’t anything to say, and you’re quiet.
So I turn back to the stars, moving too slowly,
But moving, ancient light that confounded
Astronomers, fearing eccentricity, or punishment
For it, burning away their distance from God;
So they turned back on the stars, and you squeeze my hand.
If truth is heresy, Brahe can hardly be blamed
For a universe model that set sun and Mars
Toward fiery discourse – I say, and you laugh,
And punch my arm, which is confusing;
I can hardly be blamed if truth is relevant.
Errantium syderum – wandering stars
That threw the world into error, only needed
Correction, but correction eternal.
The tent-bed is warm on the hillside.
Mountains and shoreline, errantium syderum.