An endless stretch
of shiver stars,
rushing through the
tar dark spill
of time and space.
I’m splayed on the hood
of a spent farm truck,
wrapped in a blanket
pulled from our sofa,
observing a universe
mid-scattering.
Really, it’s as if some
celestial being
was standing over
a heap of dust-
the motes
of all that is,
will be,
and ever was-
with the intention,
of course,
to build immortal worlds
from the pile,
enduring moons
and forever swirls,
forged by
craft and trial.
But instead,
the being sneezed
and the dust of us went
*poof*
scattering fast
without order,
without reason,
without proof.
I can only believe
in this clumsy god
who watches
his dust,
curious,
stepping in
if he sees fit,
making do
with the madness,
still trying to
make sense of it.
pm poetry 