my pride lies
scooped out and bleeding on the barbed wire;
and my palate, cut with bitter honey.
i am small in the ebon silence-
no sound save insects of the eve,
no medium a man might use
speaking of his devotions
each time to the air.
the cosmos is not greedy with its truths.
i raise eyes and see
the arm of galactic star-mist
spattered across the void…
this is the why of so many things-
great eye (so imagined),
passes over “i”
and sees nothing.
great pillars of dust, my genesis;
and flowering grass, my revelation,
are more me than i.
so, am i to hurl my fragile mass upon the rock
and devoid my senses of this?
not to hear horses moving through the night-fields
or taste the heavy pine air
or suck in the damp earth’s scent?
“i am alone,” we say in small voices,
lost children staring into the black.
says the universe, “so?”, staring back.